The Crown and the Sword

CHAPTER TWELVE

Even now, with the dome of sparkling stars above him, the moons of red and white both visible at differing ends of the sky, Ankhar could not dispel the appalling sense of isolation and entombment that had pressed so heavily upon him during the sunless quest. He had never expected to miss so much of the world he had always known. Never one to wax poetic over the song of a bird or the fragrance of a lush forest, he had nevertheless found those sensory memories tormenting his dreams, jolting him awake and near despair as he recognized the stone and dark and cold of his subterranean surroundings.

Furthermore, the miserable journey back to the surface seemed to take twice as long as the descent, an exhausting climb back through the underground labyrinth. His muscles ached from weariness; his hands were blistered by the work of lifting himself over rough rock. Often he had to hoist Laka over challenging, steep stretches of the climb. At one point the return trip was eased by the levitation spell Hoarst had cast so, once again with his stepmother cradled in his arms, the half-giant had been able to rise up the miles-long precipice he had magically descended a lifetime earlier.

At least it seemed like another life. Only the thrilling-and terrifying-success of their mission had given him the strength to persevere, trudging blindly through the long caverns leading, he desperately hoped, back to the surface. Laka’s spirits had never flagged, however, nor had she displayed any doubts as to the correctness of their path. As usual, her wisdom was proved sound.

By the time the weary trio had approached the mouth of the cave, squinting against the blinding daylight even though it was just past sunset, the commander of the horde had somehow straightened himself. He had even attained a measure of swagger by the time he and his two companions returned to the camp. There they learned that nearly twenty days had passed during their sojourn. The army’s positions hadn’t changed in that time, but Ankhar learned the knights were massing across the Vingaard, so it was with a sense of growing urgency that the half-giant ordered immediate preparations for the attack on Solanthus.

His most important captains were summoned to arrive at the rendezvous point by midnight. Bloodgutter reported that his brigade, which was to lead the assault once the city wall had been breached, was on the march, and would be in position below the West Gate before dawn. Captain Blackgaard rode up on his midnight-blue charger, the animal snorting and pawing the ground as if it sensed-and thrilled at-the nearness of battle. Rib Chewer Wargmaster was also here; though his lupine cavalry would not be involved in storming the walls, Ankhar wanted his most trusted commander to hear all the plans and view the new power of the Truth. The goblin chief settled beside the fire, wrapped his cloak around himself, and promptly fell asleep.

As the hours ticked by, the half-giant paced worriedly. All these captains, all of their fierce and veteran warriors, would not be enough to win the battle he intended to wage. Finally he pulled his stepmother aside and spoke in a hoarse whisper. “Where is he? What keeps the Thorn Knight?”

“Sir Hoarst has much work to do,” Laka reminded him. “If he makes a mistake in the creation of his device, it will be difficult-maybe impossible-to control the king once we open the box.”

Ankhar shivered. The memory of the king of the elementals, shackled and restrained, was terrifying. The thought of him running amok was completely unacceptable.

Dawn was already streaking the eastern sky, silhouetting the lofty battlements, spires, and ramparts of the West Gate, before the wizard made his appearance. He carried a slender wand, a stick no longer than the span between the tip of the thumb and little finger on the half-giant’s splayed hand.

“That?” Ankhar asked skeptically.

The wizard looked haggard; he had dark circles around his eyes and a pallid cast to his skin, his paleness accentuated by the long period under the ground. He had not rested since they had returned to the camp, and now he fixed the commander with a glare that caused Ankhar to immediately regret his tone.

“This wand is the product of a great deal of research, spellcasting, and careful carving,” Hoarst snapped. “If its appearance is not suitably impressive, I suggest you find someone else to control the creature!”

“No! It will do-it must!”

By this time the ogres had arrived, nearly a thousand of the brutish creatures assembled in five battle columns, each ten abreast and twenty deep. The sheer mass and crushing momentum of such a formation would overpower any normal army, and if the elemental king could but smash through the gatehouse, Ankhar was confident that his ogres would be able to strike deep into the city’s defenses. They would be followed by thousands upon thousands of goblins, hobgoblins, and Blackgaard’s mercenaries.

The half-giant could almost taste the coming victory! But there were still many questions to be answered. He sat with Hoarst and Laka beneath the army headquarters banner and tried to hammer out the details. The ruby box rested on the ground at his feet.

“The box is the ultimate means of control,” the Thorn Knight explained. He had gone over this before, but if he was impatient now, repeating himself, he didn’t betray the fact. “As long as the king wears the shackles when he is out, he will be compelled to return to the box when it is opened.”

“Thus it was in my vision, the image of the Truth,” Laka confirmed. She nodded at the slender wand. “And your twig?”

Hoarst shrugged. “It is a means of focusing the creature’s attention on a target. I must wield the wand-it requires a spell-caster to effect its function. When we open the box, the king will emerge, and he will be consumed with rage by his entrapment. But the shackles bind him to our will, so he will not attack the one who holds the box or any nearby.

“With the wand I shall steer him to the gate, and his innate fury will drive him forward in a destructive frenzy. I hope, and expect, that the wand will function as a powerful prod, that I will be able to guide him from a distance of several miles away.”

“But if he gets too far away, he could break the spell?” This seemed to Ankhar to be a rather important point. “Could he turn on us?”

“If we begin to lose control of him through the wand, Laka must open the box. He will be drawn back to us and be compelled to enter his prison.”

“Very well,” decided the army commander. The sky in the east was already pale blue, and sunrise was less than an hour away. He summoned Bloodgutter with a wave. “Make ready,” he ordered. Then he turned to his stepmother.

“Time to open the box.”

Sir Cedric Keflar looked in on his children, all three sleeping in the single narrow bunk. Violet, the oldest, was nearly as long as the bed, but she curled her slim frame against the wall so her younger brothers could nestle in the softer, central part of the crude straw mattress. The knight leaned down and kissed each child’s smooth cheek, his heart breaking at the gauntness of those precious faces, proof of the hunger that had sunk once bright eyes so deeply into their sockets. He was grateful they didn’t awaken; Violet only sighed quietly and shifted a little in her sleep.

Barely a foot away in the tiny room, Kiera, Cedric’s wife of twenty years, lay shivering on her own pallet. He touched a hand to her forehead and felt the fever that was burning her up. He took the time to moisten a rag and place it over her clammy skin. Then he leaned down to kiss her, grateful for the flutter of eyelids that was as much acknowledgement as she could offer.

Dawn was coming, and with dawn came duty. The sun would wait for no man, and Cedric Keflar, Captain of Swords, was determined to be as reliable as that cosmic orb when it came to his duty. He eased out of the tiny bedroom and buckled on his great sword, the weapon that had belonged to his father’s father’s fathers for as far back as any of the Keflars could reckon. Silently he closed the door to the apartment, trying to keep his armor from clanking as he made his way past the sleeping families crowded into the other rooms, and clustered on the balconies and landings of the rickety building’s stairways.

This was the way of life in crowded, besieged Solanthus. Cedric’s rank would have entitled him to a house for his family alone, but only if such houses were available. The entire human population for a hundred miles in every direction-at least those humans who had survived the horde’s initial invasion-had come to seek shelter behind the city’s high, impregnable walls. They subsisted on starvation rations and during the last winter, had burned every stick of wood within Solanthus. Clerics labored to create food, and while their efforts kept many people alive, there was never enough.

Cedric had to step over several people sleeping on the front steps of his building, and more were huddled against the curb, in each alley, sometimes tumbling into the roadway. Moving through the darkness, the knight captain walked carefully. Here and there a pair of bright eyes watched him from the darkness, and he did his best to look calm and capable as he marched toward another day at his post.

As he turned down the gate street, he glanced over his shoulder, toward the heart of his city. The Cleft Spires loomed to the left, but the lofty, graceful outline of the Ducal Palace dominated the view. Flanked by slender towers, with an arched roof that looked more like a cathedral than a castle, it was a view that never failed to inspire Sir Cedric. It reminded him of so many of things they were fighting for.

“Bless you, my lady,” he whispered, thinking gratefully of the woman who dwelled there, the duchess who moved among her people with such serenity that the citizenry couldn’t help but take hope from her example.

As Cedric moved closer to the West Gate, he passed through a broad marketplace, now dark and silent except for the snores of sleeping refugees. Beyond, the steep walls of the gatehouse rose before him. He paused in the plaza before entering the building. Outlined by the growing light of dawn, the Cleft Spires stood out against the rosy sky. Silhouetted against the setting of the white moon rose the gatehouse and the formidable walls to the west. That was where Cedric headed this morning… and every morning. As Commandant of the West Gate, he was responsible for one of the key components of the city’s defense.

“How fares it, lads?” he asked the men of the night watch, who snapped to attention as their captain climbed the stairs to the First Tower, the rampart directly over the thick, iron-banded gates.

“Bit of a rumpus out there in the wee hours, sir,” replied the sergeant major who ruled the post during the hours of darkness. “Seems to be some ogres moving up to within a mile of the gate.”

“Well, Mapes, we’ll have to hope the blokes creep a bit closer,” Cedric replied cheerfully. “And our archers can turn a few of ’em into pincushions!”

“Aye, Captain!” Mapes said with equal cheer. The men of the ranks, a dozen or more of them standing within earshot, looked at each other and nodded. Already whispered reports of the exchange, verbatim, were being passed along the lines on the wall tops, through the interior bastions, and down into the central courtyard. With confident leaders like these, the men trusted they were invincible.

The West Gate was more than just a gatehouse; it was a sturdy castle in its own right. The gate was wide enough, when opened, for two freight wagons to roll through or ten fully armored knights to ride abreast. The approach crossed a drawbridge some forty feet long, over a moat that was nearly as deep. The bottom of the moat was a muddy morass of sewage, brackish water, and mud deep enough to swallow a tall man up to his neck. When the drawbridge was raised, it formed the first barrier of the gates. Immediately within was a massive portcullis of iron bars-the second line of defense.

An attacker who penetrated the portcullis would find himself in a constricted corridor, blocked by another portcullis forty feet inside. Overhead was a slotted ceiling-whose slots were murder holes, designed for hot oil to be poured down the openings or arrows to be loosed at the heads of any encroaching foes. If the assaulting force broke through the second portcullis, its soldiers then would have to cross a courtyard a hundred feet wide, surrounded on all sides by high ramparts and towers. From those elevations a devastating fire could be directed at the hopelessly exposed invaders. Then, across the courtyard, the whole process of the double portcullis corridor had to be repeated before the enemy actually broke through to the city streets of Solanthus.

Sir Cedric had a garrison of more than five hundred men to hold just this one gatehouse. Though the troops, like everyone else in the city, were hungry and discouraged, they were brave fighters and if given the chance, they would certainly acquit themselves in a manner worthy of the Knights of Solamnia. Indeed, the greatest enemy that they faced-besides hunger-was the long period of inactivity that had worn away at their readiness over more than thirteen months of siege. To combat this forced lassitude, Cedric and Mapes had organized countless drills and driven the men through numerous training regimens scheduled in the deep central courtyard. But the nearing prospect of battle, the chance to strike back at the ever-present, but thus far unreachable, horde, was to the captain’s thinking the best medicine he could ask for his men.

Still, Cedric could not quell a sense of disquiet as he gazed over the wall, spying the great blocks of the ogre columns increasingly visible as dawn turned to daylight. The ogres were organized in tight file formations-that is, one file directly behind the other-such that they would assault the gate almost as one. Their drums, in a measured basso thumping, were marking a slow, almost dirge-like tempo, he noted. Ogres were tough brutes, Cedric well knew, but even if they held great shields over their heads, the devastating fire of arrows, rocks, and burning oil from the heights would surely decimate a great number of them before they could crawl through the mud of the moat. So the captain doubted they would attack in a mass and suspected they must have some other plan.

The first clue to their strategy came now, when a hulking shape, accompanied by a more normal-sized retinue of soldiers, appeared at the fore of the first ogre company.

“Why, that’s the half-giant himself,” Mapes exclaimed, “or I’m the son of a gully dwarf!”

Cedric, who had a spyglass, raised it to his eye and stared. “No, Mapes, your bloodlines can reasonably be assumed to have flowed through humans,” the captain confirmed.

As the bestial, tusked face of the horde’s commander glared back at him, the knight felt his first shiver of apprehension. “That bastard is up to something today,” he said warily.

He scanned around, examining Ankhar’s party. Next to the half-giant, he saw a man in the armored breastplate and ash-gray cloak typical of a Thorn Knight. On the other side stood a short, stooped creature with bestial features, apparently some kind of witch doctor, clutching a grotesque talisman that looked to be a human skull mounted on some kind of short stick.

The latter, a gnarled female, placed a small box on the ground before Ankhar as the first rays of the sun streamed over the battlements and brightened the ground. Something as red as blood, rubies no doubt, glittered brightly on that container, as the witch doctor pulled back the lid.

Cedric continued to stare, betraying no emotion, as a pair of sparkling embers rocketed out of the box, climbing, spiraling around each other, circling into the air. They soared to a height above the heads of the strange trio, then floated unsteadily, bobbing and weaving, occasionally intermingling or floating past each other. Now his eyes returned to the box, which was spewing smoke, a dark cloud of vapor that billowed upward into an impermeable column, masking the half-giant and his two companions. The black vapor shot up to the height of the circling embers then halted its rise, though more smoke continued to pour from the box, filling out the pillar, thickening it, giving it an almost tangible solidity.

The captain could hear wary mutters and whispers from the men on the ramparts. “Steady, fellows,” he counseled. “Mapes, get a couple of the Kingfishers up here right away.”

The sergeant major hurried to fetch a couple of the Solamnic Auxiliary Mages, new to the ranks of the ancient order. These men, universally young and keenly intelligent, devoted their time to the study of spells and wizardry rather than the customary use of the sword and shield. As their symbol was the kingfisher, many of the veteran knights had taken to calling them by that name. Cedric had a feeling the Kingfishers might be of some use against this new, as yet unknown mystery. Already the vaporous form was taking a shape, vaguely humanoid, with arms and legs and a broad torso. The entire huge body was an image in midnight black, except for the glowing coals, and a pair of large silver rings that seemed to encompass each of the monster’s wrists.

The twin embers had settled into the face where eyes ought to be, and the knight captain, vanquisher of many horrible foes, felt a shiver run down his spine as those flaring, evil orbs seemed to flicker before focusing directly upon him. With a muttered curse, Cedric lowered the spyglass and drew a breath. He could see the vapor monster well enough with his naked eye: the conjured being seemed to be standing upon stony legs, while fire surged and flickered all across its torso, arms, and face.

“Look sharp there, men!” he ordered. “Archers, make ready. Torch the oil pots. Get the reserves back from the ramparts. But all of you, stand by.”

By the time he had finished his commands, the giant creature was already striding forward, heavy feet pounding the ground with steps that reverberated all the way to the top of the high rampart. This was no smoke monster, he saw now; clearly, it had become a solid mass of rock or metallic weight. Cedric thought of the thick, iron-banded gate below his feet, and with a twinge wondered if it could stand against this foe.

The drums, massive kettles pounded by ogre drummers, picked up the cadence to a marching tempo. The first column of ogres swung toward the gate, trailing the giant by several hundred paces. But the monstrous creation led the charge… all alone.

Not that it looked like it would need much help.

Closer and closer the monster came, seeming to grow and loom larger with each thunderous step. Its growth was an illusion, Cedric realized-by the time it was two hundred yards away, the thing loomed as tall as the great drawbridge that, naturally, had been raised into blocking position. At one hundred yards, the distance previously marked by white posts on the ground before the gatehouse, the captain uttered a sharp command:

“Archers: mark the range! Volley fire!”

A cloud of arrows rose into the air, the missiles launched by more than two hundred longbowmen of the gatehouse garrison. The missiles converged in the air at the apex of their flight, glittering in the dawn’s light for a moment before plunging down to shower the conjured giant and the ground around him. Cedric stared, his hands clenched into fists as he muttered a prayer to Kiri-Jolith-a prayer that went conspicuously unanswered as the shower of missiles seemed to disintegrate upon striking the monster’s enchanted flesh. Some of the missiles missed their target altogether, of course, and they hit the ground, leaving a grotesquely elongated outline of the gigantic shape tattooed onto the dirty plain.

Cedric glanced over his shoulder as two young mages, beardless, clad in white tunics emblazoned with the colorful bird, joined him on the platform. They were looking, aghast, at the massive apparition.

“Kingfishers! Make ready!” commanded the captain. With trembling limbs, they raised their hands, chanting their spells. Several magical missiles blazed outward from the first mage’s fingers, the crackling bolts vanishing as they made contact with the fire-eyed giant. The second tried to cast a more complicated spell, but terror apparently drove the words from his memory-he mumbled an inarticulate sound, gesturing wildly, but nothing happened.

The creature lumbered on with no appreciable change in speed, drawing closer and closer with each passing breath. Cedric ordered a second and third volley of arrows released, but they had the same inconsequential effect. The ogres in the column behind the conjured giant roared a hoarse challenge, exultant as they sensed the power of their new ally.

“Ready the oil! Shower the bastard when it crosses the moat!” cried the captain. To both sides heavy caldrons were rolled to the very brink of the rampart, levered upward, and balanced between the jutting balustrades. The giant strode on, one foot plunging into the muck of the moat while the other crossed the wide obstacle in a single stride. The mired foot came free with no visible effort; then the monster was, literally, at the gate.

“Now-dump oil! Toss the torches!” Cedric’s voice strained not with fear, but with volume; he would betray none of the terror he felt. He gripped the sword of his father, silently daring the creature to come within the weapon’s reach.

But first would be the trial by fire. Cedric watched as the hot oil shimmered as it fell through the air, splattering across the creature’s head and torso, outlining the black body in a slick, dense layer. Its flesh, closer up, looked more like rock than iron, the captain decided, fully conscious that neither substance was especially vulnerable to fire.

Dozens of burning torches tumbled downward, tossed by courageous men waiting upon the battlements. They smoked and sputtered through the air, and when they contacted the oily form of the monster, they ignited the liquid fuel almost instantly. A huge wall of flame roared up into the air, driving the soldiers back momentarily.

Within mere moments the gigantic form was engulfed in flame, but if it felt any discomfort from the intense heat that burned the faces of the Solamnics, it gave not the slightest indication. Instead, the monster cocked one mighty fist and delivered a crushing blow to the heavy planks of the drawbridge. Cedric heard boards splintering and felt the groaning collapse of that massive barrier as the tower itself swayed under his feet.

“Rocks! Drop them-now!” cried the captain, despair growing.

Immediately the huge baskets that had been poised on the rampart toppled forward, spilling their heavy loads downward. Large boulders struck the monster’s head, torso, and arms-but even the heaviest of these simply bounced away without causing any visible harm.

Even under this barrage, the monster continued his pummeling, smashing the raised barrier again and again. Soon pieces of timbers, then whole beams, broke free to burst or tumble out of the way. The creature reached through the gap to seize the heavy portcullis, the second barrier to the gateway, and yanked at it. With a single, massive effort, the monster ripped that barrier aside; the iron grid, which weighed tons, was simply jerked off its mounting brackets. The monster tossed the heavy portcullis aside as though it were a toy. It fell across the moat where it would serve as a bridge for the following ogre troops.

Now the way into the gatehouse was clear. Men gathered above the murder holes, ready to stab downward with long pikes in a valiant effort to pierce the monster from above. But instead of advancing, as Cedric and the other defenders expected, the beast paused, turning its attention to the stone wall to the right of the open gate. With a series of heavy blows of those great fists, it shattered the masonry and crumbled the wall.

The captain sprang to the side as he felt the ground start to give way under his feet. Other men were not so lucky; at least a dozen soldiers toppled downward as the creature hewed a gap right through the outer wall. Cedric heard their pathetic screams as they fell directly on top of the creature-sounds of panic that were quickly silenced by death. The elemental giant crushed the defenders with swatting blows of its hands and feet, shot fiery blasts at them out of its eyes, roared flames out of its gaping mouth.

Still, the giant clawed at the wall, pulling down another great section, rubble and stone spilling into the moat, filling it, piling onto the plains beyond and also tumbling into the deep courtyard. More bridges were created across the moat. More of the rampart fell. Both Kingfishers-among many other warriors-fell to their doom, Cedric saw. The veteran captain fell back to safety just as another section of the wall flew away.

Only after the elemental giant had hacked apart a gap more than a hundred feet wide did the monster enter the courtyard of the gatehouse. It kicked through a company of archers-those few men who had survived the shower of rock from collapsing walls-and Cedric realized that it would shortly decimate those men, cross to the far wall, and smash down that barrier as well. With that, the route into Solanthus would be open.

Now, however, the creature appeared to hesitate, whirling back to peer at the only fragment of the outer wall still standing. Sir Cedric and a few brave survivors were standing there, waiting. The captain dutifully raised his blade, the sword that was the legacy of his father’s fathers’ fathers. He felt the heat of those coal-ember eyes as their inhuman gaze fastened upon him, and the monster drew back a boulder-sized fist.

“By the Oath and the Measure-you shall not pass!” cried the Captain of the West Gate.

He hurled himself from the parapet, his sword extended. The blade struck the monster’s face… and shattered in a fiery burst.

Sir Cedric himself met exactly the same fate.

The gatehouse was now a ruin-a great fan of rubble spilling out from the shattered wall, filling the moat, and making a passable, if rugged, path for the first company of ogres. Ankhar felt a sense of admiration and awe, mingled with no small measure of terror, as he witnessed the great destruction wrought by the elemental king.

Already events were moving beyond the half-giant’s control. After smashing the outer wall, the drawbridge, and two of the tall towers flanking the West Gate, the elemental king had advanced out of sight. Ankhar hastened forward, keeping pace with Hoarst and Bloodgutter, just to the rear of the first company of ogres. The drums were booming now, and the commander unconsciously matched his own gait to their increased cadence. He saw rocks flying through the gap in the wall, and watched in wonder as the top of another formidable tower began to sway. It eased to the left then tilted back to the right. When it swayed again, it just kept going, plunging from Ankhar’s view. A few breaths later, a great cloud of dust billowed into the air, rising far above the height of the wall.

There were some humans remaining on the flanks of the breach, he noted. Their counterattacks started with desultory arrow volleys, a few longbowmen recovering their wits and courage enough to snipe at the block of ogres, while the packed warriors struggled over the broken ground within the gap. Even this light fire was effective, as the steel-headed missiles inevitably struck home among the close ranks, the heavy shafts striking with enough force to drive their razor-edged tips through shields, armor, and bone.

With startling speed, the archers reorganized, and as the ogres put their heads down and surged toward the breach, concentrated volleys of arrows began to shower the front of the formation. Ogres fell, crippled, writhing, or stone dead, and the next attackers stumbled and dispersed as they veered around the obstacles formed by fallen comrades. The attack slowed as the ogres raised shields in a vain attempt to halt the lethal shower. Half of the first company had dropped, and more were dying with each relentless volley. The survivors hesitated, some glancing back toward the safety of their own lines.

Where was the monster, the elemental king? Ankhar wondered, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of the creature amidst the melee.

“Charge, you miserable cowards!” roared Bloodgutter. “Carry this place by storm-or die trying!”

He lunged ahead, ready to personally lead the assault, but Ankhar laid a restraining hand on the ogre’s shoulder. “I need you alive,” the commander told his captain, who looked at him furiously.

The situation was equally maddening to Ankhar. He could see the gap, the huge breach in the wall leading right into the city! But how many warriors would he have to sacrifice in that breach? The carnage would be horrific.

And still there was no sign of the elemental king. From the broken, rocky ground rose a din of ogres howling in pain, bellowing commands and challenges, while the humans on the wall shouted and cheered. Behind it all, the drummers kept steady cadence. Ankhar turned to Hoarst, who had come up beside him and was now looking at his commander questioningly.

“Call him back!”

The Thorn Knight shook his head and looked at the wand. “The wand will allow me to direct him away from us, but it won’t summon him.”

“Where did he go all of a sudden?”

“He could be slaying ogres now, for all we know. He is gone from my sight, too.”

Hoarst’s insolent tone, under other circumstances, would have sorely tried the half-giant’s patience. As it was, he glowered at his lieutenant then snorted in exasperation.

“Laka!” he bellowed, looking around anxiously in the smoky, dusty chaos. “Where are you?”

“I am here, my son.” He was surprised to see that the old hob-wench was, in fact, right behind him. “What is your command?”

“The king has moved too far away from us. Open the box; bring him back.”

“As you wish.” Laka immediately knelt and gently placed the ruby box on the ground before her. Slowly she lifted the lid, and as she did so Ankhar felt a chill penetrate his skin-like a wind from the Icereach that had wafted all the way to central Solamnia. It was the glacial sensation of someone opening the door to a long-cold tomb.

Beyond the ruined gatehouse, Ankhar saw that the murky air was churning, the smoke and dust was gathering like a tornado, rising into a dark funnel that stretched to loom over nearly all the city, challenging even the granite massif of the Cleft Spires in its grandeur. The sound that accompanied the churning air was that of a howling gale, the kind that drowns all speech, uproots the trees, and drives men and beasts to seek shelter.

But Ankhar stood firm, planting his fists on his hips, leaning forward slightly to brace himself against the building force of the funnel. He blinked, wiped a hand across his tearing eyes, and tried to peer through the murk. Bits of debris pelted him, stinging his skin, and his great cape flapped behind him. Laka nearly tumbled backward, but he put his big hand on her back and held her firmly, all the while staring into that gusting gale.

There it was, finally: a hellish glow of fire billowing and brightening within the interior of the cloud, drawing closer and growing more intensely hot as it neared. The half-giant could feel the fire against his skin now, and at last he could make out the returning shape of the elemental king, which towered high above the army commander. It slashed back and forth in obvious fury as it fought the confinement of its magical bonds.

Hoarst also stood fast, raising his wand to admonish the king before they were immolated. Laka laughed shrilly, a cackle of pure pleasure, as she held the lid of the box open. Slowly, thrashing in palpable frustration and fury, the immense column of stone and flame writhed and condensed and contracted, sucking slowly downward until, with an abruptness that left them gasping for breath, it vanished into the stone-covered box.

In the abrupt silence, Ankhar shook his head, trying to clear his mind. Laka showed no hesitation, however; she slammed the lid.

The king of the elementals was back in his prison, and the outer walls of Solanthus were breached.