Bladesinger

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 triumphantly 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.

An apt description for the young priestess.

A nameless sense of menace surrounded the priestess, a sense of the deep, dark places of the land, lying always in shadow. Yulda couldn't quite suppress the shiver that ran up her spine.

"Yes, I did summon you," the witch said, though whether to remind Durakh or herself, she couldn't be sure. "We have been preparing for more than a year. Are our forces ready?"

Yulda asked the question casually, in an almost friendly tone, as if the answer meant nothing more to her than if she had inquired about the weather. Her gaze, however, remained riveted on the cleric. Failure was an option.

For her part, the half-orc returned Yulda's stare before answering, though the witch knew Durakh well enough to see the telltale signs of tension in her lieutenant. It was clear to the Rashemi that Luthic's cleric felt uncomfortable beneath the lidless gaze of her missing eye-a fact that caused Yulda a fair degree of satisfaction.

"Our army is ready," Durakh answered after a moment's hesitation, "though you have caused quite a stir among the goblins with your latest… gift. Razk nearly-"

"May the gods damn that fool of a shaman," Yulda interrupted. "Can you control him?"

The odious beast held a fair amount of power, but he was, like all of his kind, a treacherous, venomous vermin that needed an almost constant lash of discipline and bullying to insure his loyalty.

"Oh yes," the cleric answered, baring a double row of yellowed, razor-sharp teeth as she did so. "Razk desires a certain series of rites that I happen to know. He will follow my lead until such time as he receives his reward."

"See to it that he does," Yulda warned. "Without his presence, the goblins will be far more difficult to manage. What of the others?"

"The bugbears and hobgoblins wait for our signal, as does Nanraak, the wild goblin king," the priestess replied. "They will join our forces once we have begun to attack in earnest. The rest of our army gathers here. In two days' time, we will complete all of the final preparations."

"Ah, that is good," Yulda said, moving toward the desk once more and gathering a number of maps in her hand. "Then the plan remains the same?" she asked.

"Yes," Durakh confirmed. "Several contingents of goblins, ogres, and spiders will move swiftly north and west, harrying and raiding the villages several days' ride from Mulptan, while our main force will sweep out of the mountains and strike first at the Mines of Tethkel and then, once we control the mines, will move to capture or destroy the villages and cities of Lower Rashemen."

Durakh's eyes gleamed with anticipation as she recounted the plan, and Yulda's own doubts were swept away by that cruel glance. She had indeed chosen her lieutenant wisely. The witch smiled in response.

"It is a good plan, if I do say so myself," she said to the cleric, purposefully ignoring the priestess's own integral contributions. It would not do to allow the cleric to become too sure of herself. "Are we certain that the Iron Lord will react to the village raids?" Yulda asked.

The half-orc idly fingered her holy symbol as she considered the question.

"I believe that he will," Durakh responded finally. "My spies say that he grows ever restless locked in his citadel of iron, surrounded by warlords who boast of past victories and drink themselves into oblivion hoping for future glory. Besides," Durakh noted with more than a hint of malice in her voice, "the last assassin that we sent after the Iron Lord nearly slit his throat while he slept. Once Volas Dyervolk hears of the raids, he will gather together his army of berserkers and run headlong into battle like an owlbear protecting its cubs."

Yulda threw the maps down on the table, sending several parchments skittering and rolling to the floor.

"Leaving the bulk of Lower Rashemen open to our attack. Soon," the witch said to no one in particular, "it will all be mine."

"And the wychlaran?" asked Durakh.

Yulda turned to gaze at the cleric. Though the half-orc had asked the question with the same inflection she gave everything else, the Rashemi witch heard something beneath the simple inquiry-an undertone of fear? Hope? It was difficult to tell.

Nevertheless, Yulda fixed the black point of her eldritch gaze upon Durakh.

"Leave them to me," Yulda said in a chill voice.

During the course of the past year, the witch had gathered a growing coterie of sorcerers, wizards, and hags in the wilds of the High Country. Frustrated by the yoke of the wychlaran, choked and broken by their own lust for power, they came to her, eager to trade their own freedom for the scraps from her table. There were more of them than she could ever have imagined. The wychlaran were blinded by their traditional rule of power. Carefree and overly complacent in their hereditary role in Rashemen, they could not even conceive of anyone resisting the natural order of things. There were shadows in their mirrors and weeds in their garden that would choke the very life out of them, and they did not even take notice.

Her coterie would travel with the bulk of the army, stirring up the more impetuous of the telthor and turning their arcane power against the spells of the wychlaran, and without the aid of the vremyonni, the sisterhood of the wychlaran would fall. That left only the durthan, holed up in Erech Forest, but Yulda knew that once the durthan understood which way the wind was blowing, they would flock to her banner. Then she would use them too, as she used everything and everyone in her path, climbing over the backs of their spent and lifeless corpses to attain her goal.

Durakh only nodded at the witch's admonition, her lips pursed in thought.

"There is one thing that I believe we haven't fully considered," Durakh said.

"What is that?" Yulda replied, already sensing the turn of the cleric's thoughts.

"What will Thay do as Rashemen tears itself apart from within?" Durakh asked, and this time Yulda heard true concern in the priestess's voice. "I hardly think that the Red Wizards will sit quietly on the sidelines until the dust settles."

Yulda rubbed her hands together and let out a hideous cackle.

"That is exactly what they will do, dear Durakh," Yulda said as her laughter subsided. "Those petty wizardlings and I have come to a certain… understanding."

In truth, she would have to give up a good portion of the western border of Lower Rashemen, but that would be a small price to pay for the freedom to work without those meddling Thayans interfering. Besides, when she had finally consolidated her power, Yulda might be able to "renegotiate" her agreement.

Durakh did not seem pleased by the existence of any pact with the Red Wizards, a fact that caused the witch no small concern. Before Yulda could follow her train of thought, however, the half-orc stood and cast a cold look at her.

"You are, of course, free to make arrangements with anyone you choose," Durakh said, "just so long as you do not forget our own 'understanding.'"

Despite the cleric's insolent tone, Yulda held her temper in check. Too much was at stake to let a simple lapse in discipline upset everything.

"Our agreement still stands," she assured Durakh. "Once we have disposed of the wychlaran, you may take part of the army and explore the Fortress of the Half Demon." Yulda almost shuddered. The fortress, one of the many ruins left over from the Narfell Empire, rulers of the land before the Rashemi people were formed, held the remains of an ancient portal that legends said would lead to the Lower Planes. "If you can secure the fortress and hold it," Yulda continued, "then it is yours in perpetuity."

May you die trying, the witch thought. It was, she had to admit, an elegant solution to what could become a troubling problem. Alive, Durakh could eventually become a rival for power. If she were to die on her quest, which, according to what Yulda knew of the fortress, was quite likely, it would spare her the bother of having to destroy the cleric on her own.

Durakh bowed her head slightly.

"Then I must ask to take your leave," Durakh said, "for I have much to do if we are to leave on schedule."

Yulda inclined her own head in a regal manner designed to irritate her lieutenant.

"Then you have my leave," Yulda replied. "I trust that everything will be in order." The witch turned her back on the cleric and began once more to study the maps upon her desk, confident that everything would move according to plan.

Outside, the storm continued to rage.