Emperor of Ansalon

Chapter 3

It took nearly a week to find the tower, but when he did, no doubt lingered: before him loomed the dour keep where the lady pictured in the locket was held prisoner.

The lofty structure rose into the sky like a massive, weather-beaten tree trunk. Upthrust from a craggy sum shy;mit of dark stone, the high, cylindrical tower seemed to defy gravity, to defy all worldly constraint as it soared above the peaks of the Khalkists. Clouds whipped past the parapets of its upper ramparts while mist shrouded the valleys-gorges actually-that lay a long plummet to all sides.

The fortress itself was taller than it was wide, and it seemed to perch like some serene vulture on its lofty pinnacle. Its black stone walls rose flush with the cliffs, soaring to narrow parapets. Near the top, six flanking spires jutted outward from the central tower and en shy;circled the upper ramparts. A cone-shaped roof capped the main structure, though the surrounding spires were topped with the notched rims of stone parapets.

For the most part, the keep and its unassailable sum shy;mit stood apart from other mountains, separated from them by wide chasms and gorges. Yet one mountain, equally lofty, rose close beside the fortress. A steep, treacherous pathway led to the summit of this adjoining peak. A drawbridge raised almost flush with the tower's wall could be lowered to span the gap between the pin shy;nacles, giving the winding trail access to the keep's only door. Still, with the drawbridge raised, it seemed to the warrior that the fortress was as well protected as a castle floating on a cloud.

Groaning in weariness, Ariakas slumped against a boulder. The stone was hard, angular in shape, and so cold that it sapped the heat from his body despite the fur cloak he had made from the kender bedroll. Yet even now, in the shadow of an obstacle that loomed as impreg shy;nable as anything he had ever faced, he hadn't consid shy;ered turning away. The temperature continued to drop, and an icy wind drove bits of snow like stinging needles against the exposed skin of his face. But no notion to seek a lower elevation entered his mind.

Instead, he looked about for a place to make his camp. The primary attribute of this camp, he knew, would not be shelter, though of course that was desirable. More importantly, however, he looked for a place from which he could observe the tower while remaining concealed. In time, he found a narrow niche in a steep slope, a dozen feet above the winding trail that approached the drawbridge. Here he was protected from the wind, and two large boulders screened his tiny camp from the tower's observation. He could lie prone, exposing just the top of his head between those two stones, and gain a good view of the lofty fortress-from its low gate to the soaring pinnacles of its six spires.

Making himself as comfortable as possible, Ariakas settled onto the ground to study his objective. In the hours since he had discovered the tower, he had seen no sign of movement nor any life within or atop the structure.

He stared for a time at the high gates, visible behind the drawbridge. They seemed to be a pair of narrow doors, rising together to a point. Before those doors stood the tall, plank roadway of the drawbridge, now raised almost to a vertical elevation by chains that emerged from slits in the tower's wall, forty feet above the entrance.

As Ariakas studied the place, his hand came to rest against his chin, and he explored the deep scar that remained from the slice of the kender's knife. No mirror allowed him to inspect the cut, yet his fingers had told him many times in the past week that the wound was wide, gaping from the ridge of his chin into his lower lip. He could press his tongue between the two halves of that cut, and though the injury had healed without infection, it created difficulties in eating and drinking. His imagi shy;nation told him that the raw flesh in the cut glared angry and red.

Since his encounter with the kender, Ariakas had spent many hours reflecting on his carelessness. He felt bitter shame for his loss of control, knowing that-if he'd kept his wits about him-he could have avoided that slashing blade. Why had the bitch been so foolishly self-destructive? He wrestled with the question for the thou shy;sandth time. Surely she knew she had no chance against his sword. Or had she really felt that he'd lose complete control, enabling her to strike a killing blow?

An unusual sense of disquiet permeated the warrior's thoughts. His confidence sorely waned with the memory of his last challenge-a simple retrieval of his locket, an operation that left him maimed. Was that failing the fac shy;tor that brought him now to this formidable tower, con shy;templating this mad task? Or was it, perhaps, the ogres? He bore no love for the beasts, and the murder of his father, plus a thousand other outrages, had given him ample desire for vengeance. Did rank hatred propel him into this suicidal course?

He knew that he was driven by more than this. Uncon shy;sciously, he reached his hand into the pouch at his side and curled it around the solid box of the locket. Then, as always, his imagination completed for him the image of a woman-the woman, she had become.

As always, he was amazed at the clarity, the consis shy;tency of his mental image. Of course, he had the likeness of the tiny picture to begin with, but a full array of addi shy;tional details had been added by his mind. Only the woman's clothing ever changed-now in his thoughts she wore a flowing dress of powdery blue, whereas this morning his imagination had pictured her in a filmy gown of silky white. Her shoulders were bare, for the dress was cut low, and her long, ink-black hair was coiled upon her scalp with queenly majesty.

Her face was long, sculpted in a beauty too serene for words. Her dark eyes alternately flashed and wept, and her sweeping neck was adorned with glittering jewels. Graceful fingers rose to her face, as if she felt his intru shy;sive presence. But, too, it was an intrusion that he sensed she wanted, for her breasts rose and fell with the increased tempo of her breathing, her lips parted, moist, in silence that he took as invitation.

Why did he feel compelled to reach her? The "lady" in the tower, she had been to the kender…. She was rich, a princess, perhaps. Ariakas liked money, had felt the draw of wealth throughout his life-had even known the pleasures of extravagance, when coins had flowed from his fingers like water over a dam. It was a grand feel shy;ing-wealth-and a powerful summons.

But it was not the thing that drew him now.

Night pulled in its shutters, and the tower disap shy;peared from view-except for one high window, where a yellow light broke the stygian darkness like a solitary star. Clouds lowered, and flurries of snow eddied around Ariakas, but still that light gleamed like a bea shy;con, calling him onward and upward.

He rested through the night, sleeping little. When he did close his eyes, the image of the lady grew and burned in his mind. After a few moments of this, he would awaken and stare at the tower, at the lone light that still flamed in the sky, even as dawn began to color the eastern horizon.

Despite his restless night, he crawled from his bedroll with a sense of vigor and purpose. The mist had burned away, and the tower stood out in stark black outline against the clear sky. The sun sent its first probing rays from beyond the horizon, and these illuminated the highest peaks-and, soon, the tower. Yet when sunlight struck the dark walls, it seemed that the brightness van shy;ished into the black stone surfaces.

His observation was interrupted then by a strange sound-the first noise he'd heard in many days other than the moaning of the wind or the splashing of a mountain rivulet. It was the unmistakable clink of metal against metal, and in a few moments Ariakas discerned the measured beat of footsteps.

Pulling down behind the security of the twin boulders, he studied the pathway below. Shortly a large metal-clad figure came into view, swaggering up the trail. It took Ariakas less than a second to recognize the brute as an ogre. A great, toothy mouth gaped wide below a blunt snout, and twin tusks, yellowed with age, jutted upward from the corners of the jaw. The creature stood fully eight feet tall, with a barrel-sized chest and two huge, stumpy legs. As it marched it cast wicked eyes to the left and right, diligently searching the slope above the trail.

Ariakas crouched and froze, listening as the brute trundled past. By then he could hear the sounds of other marchers, grunting, groaning, and cursing under some strain. Risking another look, the man saw that the lead ogre had disappeared around the next bend in the trail. Immediately below, a pair of ogres labored under the weight of a heavy log, precariously balanced across their broad shoulders. Others came into view, each hauling a tree trunk destined, Ariakas speculated, for the fireplaces of the lofty keep.

Finally the band of ogres worked its way around the bend, but still Ariakas held his position, waiting and watching the trail. Minutes passed. The sounds of the grumbling ogres faded up the trail. Still the warrior waited.

A man came into sight, walking slowly and carefully up the path. Like the ogre who had led the column, he scanned the slopes above the trail with diligence and caution. His hand rested on the hilt of a long sword, and the weapon swung at the strange warrior's side with a grace that spoke of long familiarity.

More significant was the man's armor. Ariakas allowed his face to twist into a scar-split smile when he saw the metal helm-it included a visor lowered to cover the warrior's face. He was a large fellow, well-muscled and long of leg. Like the fully masked helm, these facts also met with the approval of the figure concealed above the trail.

Ariakas took a quick glance up the path, checking that the ogres remained out of sight. He then hefted a small stone, nestling the oblong shape in his palm as he watched the lone rear guard pass his place of conceal shy;ment. The blank mask of the helmet faced upward, and Ariakas froze while the gaze swept past his niche. Fortu shy;nately, as he had expected, the narrow vantage point and the surrounding shadows concealed him.

Then, as the rear guard looked farther up the trail, Ariakas pitched the stone through the air, watching as it fell perfectly-about ten feet on the other side of the war shy;rior, down the slope.

The fellow would have been inhuman if he had ignored the sudden rattle of sound. The man's sword was in his hand in a flickering instant, instinctively slashing the air behind him. Only then did he hear the sounds above.

Whirling, the warrior raised his long sword to face Ariakas, who plunged his broadsword downward with both hands. The guard staggered backward, then dropped his blade, and for a sickening instant Ariakas feared that he would plummet over the edge of the steep trail. But the man caught his balance, and his faceless helm dipped downward for a fraction of a second as he looked for his weapon. That splinter of time was enough-Ariakas thrust sharply, aiming for the gap between the man's helm and his breastplate. The sword slipped through the niche, and the guard groaned once, an exhalation of shock and surprise. Then he slumped to the ground, dead.

Now Ariakas had to work fast. Glancing up at the lofty tower, he saw no movement, no sign of any reaction at all. All he could do was hope that he remained unob shy;served. Swiftly he tore off his own leather armor, replac shy;ing it with the dead man's plate mail and helm. Discarding his knapsack, he took the locket, his dagger, and-after only a moment's hesitation-the flask of lavarum and stuffed them into his small belt pouch.

Slipping the helmet over his head, he dropped the faceplate to conceal his features. After cleaning and sheathing his own sword, he started up the trail. As he jogged along, he slipped the shoulder plates over his arms and pulled the gauntlets onto his hands.

With the faceplate down, he knew he presented a rea shy;sonable facsimile of the man he had slain. How long he could maintain the charade he didn't dare to guess.

Instead, he concentrated on closing the distance that sep shy;arated him from the ogres and their heavy load of fire shy;wood.

The trail twisted and wound on its way up the narrow crag adjacent to the ogres' tower. Ariakas's lungs struggled for air as he lumbered ahead, dragged down by the unfamiliar weight of metal armor. Finally he came around a bend and caught a glimpse of the steep upward slope before him. The brutes had apparently been wait shy;ing, for some of the ogres lolled on the ground around their great logs while others stamped their feet impa shy;tiently and glared back down the trail.

As soon as Ariakas came into sight, the sitting ogres lurched to their feet, though with some visible reluctance to resume their labors. One of them gave him a casual wave, which the warrior returned, while the others heaved the logs to their shoulders and started the march.

Now Ariakas tried to assume the mantle of his new role. He inspected the heights and the back-trail just as he'd seen the dead man do, ensuring that no one fol shy;lowed the party back to its lair. The trail entered a series of steep, narrow switchbacks, and he was acutely con shy;scious of the ogres marching along the face directly over shy;head. He paid them little obvious attention, reasoning that their human rear guard would be more concerned with any unknown threats lurking to the sides of the trail.

Eventually the path opened onto the narrow summit of the crag, and the party moved onto the crest. Ariakas guessed that they approached the lowered drawbridge, and he hastened up the slope below. His plan depended on him reaching that portal before the crossing was raised again-he didn't want to risk calling out for the guards to lower it. After all, he didn't even know what language they'd speak within the forbidding tower.

He crested the ridge to see the drawbridge resting across the chasm, the double gates of the tower just swinging outward as he approached. The keep soared to the sky before him, looming upward like an extension of the solid, craggy peak. Several of the outer towers extended toward Ariakas, giving the impression that the entire keep leaned forward, ready to fall upon him. Huge squares of dark granite intermeshed perfectly to form the high, sweeping wall. Except for the six outer towers, no external features interrupted the curved wall. Smooth palisades thrust upward to meet the overhang shy;ing lip of the cone-shaped roof, far overhead.

The ogres lumbered forward, trudging across the long drawbridge and disappearing through the gates into the tower. Ariakas hastened to follow. Risking an upward glance, he studied the tower as he reached the edge of the bridge. Narrow windows slit the walls in many places, and he imagined numerous eyes upon him. He could see no movement in the darkness within, however, and soon even the ogres before him had vanished into the dark maw of the gates.

Stepping onto the bridge, Ariakas was struck by an overwhelming realization of the immense drop yawning below him. The gorge lay more than a thousand feet below the bridge, and a sensation of dizziness overtook him. Gritting his teeth, he strode resolutely forward.

Passing between the open gates, he saw shadowy out shy;lines of the winch and gear mechanisms that operated the doors. Two ogres, grunting impatiently, cranked a capstan and wheeled the huge portals shut with surpris shy;ing speed. At the same time, the rattling of chain over shy;head informed Ariakas that the drawbridge mechanism had also been engaged. The gates slammed shut behind him, and he knew his course was set.

"Here, Erastmut-saved you a glop!" grunted one of the ogres, holding out a slime-streaked bottle. Ariakas took the flask, at first feeling a measure of relief that the ogre spoke in Common. At the same time, he knew he couldn't afford to raise his visor in the presence of some shy;one who knew Erastmut.

Silently nodding his thanks, Ariakas took the bottle and reached for his faceplate. An acrid stink, mingling cheap whiskey and ogre drool, nearly sickened him as he lifted the bottle. Then, as if remembering a great secret, he held up his palm and gestured toward his belt pouch. He reached inside and pulled out his prized flask of lavarum. Setting the ogre's bottle down, he passed the flask over to the brute.

"Good!" grunted the ogre, sniffing at the neck appre shy;ciatively. He raised it and took a long gurgle.

Ariakas grimaced at the sight of the precious stuff run shy;ning down the monster's chin, but still he dared not speak. By then the other ogre gatekeeper had stepped over to them, and Ariakas gestured for him to take a drink as well. The first one scowled and shook his head. "No-din't get a good taste that time." Again he hoisted the flask and guzzled.

"Hey-save some!" barked the second, reaching out with a massive paw. Predictably, the first ogre pulled the bottle away, sneering at his companion in the sublime superiority of one who holds a winning hand of cards and doesn't care who knows the fact.

"Gimme!" insisted the second, his temper aroused by his companion's air.

The drinker cuffed his fellow's grasping fist away, lumbering a few steps to hold the flask out of reach. The thirsty ogre snorted and lunged in pursuit.

Ariakas took the opportunity to slip down the entry corridor. The high-ceilinged passage was bracketed by stone walls, with a bare floor of crushed rock. Many doors and passages opened to the sides, most of them dark and silent though an occasional glimmer of torch or candlelight showed beneath a portal. He reached a side passage where he had seen some ogres disappear to the left, and here he veered right. The corridor continued a short distance and then branched. The telltale ammonia stench from the left branch told him that it led to a latrine, so he continued right.

At last he was out of sight and hearing of the door. Though he desperately missed the ability to see and hear freely, he still did not dare to remove the constricting hel shy;met. He had no idea how many humans might be quar shy;tered in this tower. He also realized that the scar on his face made him a rather memorable figure, and he feared that even among the dull-brained ogres his appearance would draw attention.

The corridor Ariakas followed turned a corner and ter shy;minated at the foot of a wide, straight staircase. His heart flamed into hope-the kender had said the lady was imprisoned at the top of the tower. Abruptly he heard the tromp of bootsteps coming down the passageway. Without hesitation he leapt to the stairs, climbing them four steps in a bound. His heart pounding, he vanished into the upper shadows just before the marching ogres emerged into the corridor below.