War Maid's choice

Chapter Twenty-Three

Varnaythus of Kontovar stood in his carefully concealed, thoroughly warded working area, hidden at the very heart of Sothofalas, and looked about him at the bookshelves, the scrolls, and instruments of his profession. Lamps burned in the corners of the scrupulously neat, meticulously organized chamber, and he allowed himself to contemplate the level of skill, training, and raw power it represented. He’d vanquished more foes and taken more lives than even he could remember as the price of amassing that skill and power. Over the many years of his life, he’d defeated more than a dozen rivals for his position on the Council in duels arcane, adding the spoils of their libraries and their research to his own, and among the handful of wizards who might truly be counted his peers, he was respected and feared as a subtle, dangerous foe-a master not simply of the art but of craftiness and guile-it was best not to challenge. Yet somehow tonight’s contemplation of his place of power, the very core of his strength and the unassailable proof of his skill and cunning, failed to provide the sense of assurance, of being the controller and manipulator of others’ fates rather than the victim of his own, that it normally imparted.

As one of the handful of wizards powerful enough to claim a seat on the Council of Carnadosa itself, he was…unaccustomed to feeling such acute anxiety. Very few beings capable of entering the mortal plane of existence frightened him. Wencit of Rum came rather forcibly to mind as an exception, of course. Although, to be fair, “ fear ” might not be precisely the right word for what he felt in Wencit’s case. Perhaps self honesty might be a better term, since there was no doubt in his mind what would happen if he and Wencit should ever meet, and he was in no hurry to embrace that experience, but he was scarcely alone in that. And while he was being fair about things, he wouldn’t have cared to face one of Tomanak’s or Isvaria’s champions without a handy escape route carefully planned for and laid out in advance, either. There was such a thing as prudence, after all. Demons could be a nasty handful, too, although even the brightest of them were thankfully stupid and easily diverted into attacking a properly prepared glamour. One wouldn’t care to try to fight one, perhaps, but if one had taken the elementary precaution of preparing ahead of time, evading even the most powerful demon was scarcely what one might call difficult. On the other hand, he could remember at least two practitioners of the art who hadn’t prepared properly ahead of time, but those were rather…messy memories upon which he tried not to dwell.

Yet even allowing for all of the prudence and preparation in the world, he hadn’t lived as long and accomplished as much as he had without becoming inured to terrors which would have turned the bowels of even the most courageous to water. The art, at the high level at which he practiced it, was for neither the weak hearted nor the weak willed, and now he gathered that will-the will of a wizard lord of Kontovar-about himself before he spoke the final word of his current spell.

A brilliant flash enveloped the working chamber. Had there been any witnesses, they would have been painfully blinded for long, purple-and-red minutes. Even if they’d been warned in time to close their eyes, they would have blinked on tears once they opened them again, and the skins of those particularly sensitive to the art would have prickled and burned as if they’d injudiciously exposed themselves to too much sunlight. But once their eyes started working again, they would have seen that the working space at the very heart of the chamber was empty.

It was night on the Ghoul Moor.

The moon drifted overhead, floating in and out of star-spangled cloud rifts, and a cool breeze sent tree branches curtsying in the darkness. Yet there was no darkness in the clearing, where bonfires roared and crackled in snapping showers of sparks at either end of the treeless space. There had been trees here once, and not so very long ago, but they’d been felled with stone axes and hewn into massive, sap-oozing timbers. Their branches, leaves, and twigs had helped fuel those bonfires, but the timbers had been cut and notched, laid up to form a massive, open-air dais for the trio of hulking thrones set upon it.

A shape sat in each of those thrones. Roughly man-shaped, each of them hideous in its own fashion, they loomed monstrous in the dancing, seething firelight. The smallest would have stood at least ten feet tall, had it risen from its throne; the largest was half again that huge, and glaring crimson eyes-pupil-less and touched with a poison-green sheen-glowed like lava in the firelight.

One of them was covered in shaggy, rank hair, thick and snarled with knots. It had huge, six-fingered hands, the fingers tipped with scimitar-shaped claws longer than most daggers, a snouted face with foot-long, boarlike tusks, and a misshapen skull crowned with a six-foot spread of needle-pointed, bulllike horns. Another was hairless, with a thick, plated hide, an extra set of arms, and legs half again as long as they ought to have been. Each plate was crested with its own jagged, two-inch stalagmite of horn, and it wore the head of some nightmare-designed hunting cat with a direcat’s fangs that glittered with the same venomous green luminance dancing in its eyes. But the third-the largest of the three, seated on the central throne-dwarfed that cat-headed horror, for it was an even more nightmarish parody of a hradani. Its hands were enormous, even for something its size, and armed with claws that put its horned companion’s talons to shame. Crawling patterns which might have been tattoos, but were not, moved constantly across its skin in the firelight, like a nest of mating serpents, and that same pestilential green clung to it, wavering about it in a foul, deadly nimbus. It sat there, naked and hairy, blood running down either forearm and painting its massively muscled chest in shining red as it raised the tattered torso of a ghoul and ripped huge, dripping chunks of flesh-chunks larger than a grown man’s head-from it with sawtooth teeth.

The ground before the dais was littered with gnawed and splintered bones, and the clearing beyond was packed with other ghouls. The creatures crouched on their knees, bending forward, faces pressed to the ground as they prostrated themselves worshipfully, and something like a wordless, animallike hymn rose from them. The hairy, horned-headed creature rose, striding to the edge of the dais, and raised a clawed hand. It pointed to one of the kneeling ghouls, and the indicated creature looked up, eyes huge, then squealed as three of its neighbors seized it and dragged it forward. The captive twisted and fought wildly, but strong and fast as ghouls might be, its captors were just as strong, just as fast. And terrified as it might be of its fate, its fellows were even more terrified of their fates if they should allow it to escape.

They didn’t.

They reached the edge of the dais, the waiting monster reached down with one misshapen hand, and its selected victim gave one last, squealing shriek as that hand closed about its throat and lifted it effortlessly into the air. The ghoul squirmed and twisted frantically, its own claws raking uselessly at the hand which had plucked it from the ground. They opened gaping wounds in those strangling fingers, that massive wrist, but those wounds closed again as quickly as they were torn, and the horned creature only roared with hideous, hooting laughter and tightened its grip. Something crunched noisily, the ghoul’s struggles ended abruptly, and the creature returned to its throne, pulled one of the dead ghoul’s arms from its socket with casual, appalling strength and a hideous sucking, tearing sound, and began to feed upon its fresh meal.

A light flashed suddenly on the dais, like some lost lightning bolt. It was less brilliant than the one which had filled Varnaythus’ working chamber in that self-same instant in far distant Sothofalas, well over four hundred leagues to the north. Yet it was bright enough to dazzle eyes no one had warned, and an edge of fresher, sharper fear added itself to the ghouls’ worshiping chant.

The creature which had just begun to feed paused, then grunted contemptuously at the diminutive, human figure that stepped out of that glittering billiance and resumed its interrupted chewing. Its cat-headed fellow only leaned back with disinterested red eyes, resting one set of forearms on the arms of its crude throne while it picked bits of ghoul from between its own fangs with the clawed hand at the end of one of its upper arms. But the biggest, hradani-shaped creature tossed aside what was left of the ghoul it had been devouring and glared at the newcomer.

“You’re late,” it rumbled. Granite boulders screaming their agony as they were crushed in an iron vise might have sounded like that voice, and the stink of death, decay, and blood blew on its words, washing around the human before it.

“No,” Varnaythus replied. His merely mortal voice seemed small and frail after that sound of pulverized stone, but he gazed calmly up at the monster before him, and no witness could have guessed how hard it was for him to appear unshaken. “No, I’m not. This is precisely the time I told you I’d be here.”

“Do you call me liar? ”

The creature’s roar shook the night like a terrier shaking a rat and it half-rose from its throne, yet Varnaythus stood his ground.

“That wasn’t what I said. I said this is the time I told you to expect me here. That happens to be the truth. Whether you were mistaken, misspoke, or lied is more than I can say. And, frankly, of very little interest to me.”

The huge, obscene parody of a hradani glared at him, and the ghouls who filled the clearing went silent, trembling in terror, but Varnaythus simply stood there, arms folded before him, hands tucked into the full sleeves of his robe, and waited. Tension crackled in the night, and then, after a long, breathless moment, the creature sank back onto its throne.

“You said you would have word for us,” it rumbled. “Give it and be gone.”

“Very well.”

Varnaythus inclined his head, but only very slightly. It was a carefully metered gesture of respect from one who was at the very least an equal, and the glare in the creature’s eyes glowed hot, a brighter, deadlier green flaming through the lava for just an instant. Yet that was all that happened, and the wizard inhaled deeply, despite the stench filling the air, as he raised his head once more.

Both demons and devils were drawn from other universes, ones in which the Dark had triumphed over the Light and such abominations roamed free, yet they were very different from one another. There were other, even more powerful servants who couldn’t be brought across the chasm between universes, for the Gods of Light forbade it, and those other servants were too powerful to creep across unobserved. Sharna’s greater servants approached that limit, but not so nearly as Krashnark’s. His devils might be physically less imposing than demons, yet they blazed with so much power it was even more difficult for them to elude the Gods of Light’s vigilance. They were far, far more intelligent than Sharna’s creatures, as well, and appearances could be deceiving even where simple physical strength was concerned. The creature in front of him-Anshakar-could have matched any demon strength for strength, and its mere presence warped reality in subtle, distorting ways. The very air about it seemed to shimmer and waver, as if it were water covered by a thin skim of polluted oil, and that distortion could have ruinous consequences for any spell directed at it. More than that, demons were bound by their summoners; they were controlled, not controllers. But unlike a demon, Anshakar could not have cared less that Varnaythus knew his true name, for-also unlike a demon-no mortal could summon him against his will, and Anshakar’s name had no power over him, except in the voice of Him whom he called Master. He could not be bound, he could not be commanded, and his wrath could not be appeased by any mortal ever born.

That was the reason no wizard in his right mind ever even attempted to summon a devil. If it deigned to respond at all, it was usually only to discover who’d had the audacity to disturb it before it devoured that unfortunate individual…usually while the meal was still alive, since its soul was tastier that way. Occasionallyoccasionally — it might actually choose not to destroy its summoner, but only when the reason it had been summoned was more entertaining than dismembering a wizard, and very few things were more entertaining for a devil than dismembering anyone.

But Anshakar and his companions hadn’t been summoned; they’d been sent, by Krashnark Phrofro, the one being they had no choice but to obey. Every devil in existence, wherever it might dwell, came from a universe which had fallen into Krashnark’s power as His personal fief, and every one of them owed Him a fealty no other god-a certainly no mere mortal-could challenge or overcome.

That was one of the reasons for the burning hatred between Him and His twin, Sharna. There were many times as many demons as devils, but Sharna lacked the power to command those more powerful beings, and a single devil was more than a match for any score of demons. There had been confrontations, upon occasion, between Sharna and Krashnark, mostly in the closing stages of the conquest of universes which had fallen to the Dark. The infighting at moments like that tended to be vicious beyond belief as Phrobus’ children battled to rip the choicest bits of power from the toppling wreckage. Yet unless one of Their siblings chose to league with Sharna (which They rarely did; They had no desire to make Krashnark an enemy for Sharna’s sake), those confrontations had always…ended badly for Him and His demons.

Varnaythus didn’t know all the details of those other universes, and he often suspected that what he did know-what he’d been allowed to discover-had been carefully shaped and limited by the Dark Gods. They didn’t want Their mortal servants in this universe knowing too much about the weaknesses, the potential vulnerabilities, They might have revealed in another. But he also suspected that one reason Krashnark’s devils were so loyal and obedient to Him was also the reason they were more powerful; Krashnark had taken at least a partial page from the God of Light. He had a far more direct relationship with His greater servants than the other Dark Gods, deliberately choosing to have fewer of them than He might have, but making those He did have His champions, as surely as Bahzell Bahnakson was Tomanak’s champion. Not in the same way, for even the greatest of His servants was still His slave, as well, yet He allowed them a greater degree of autonomy-and access to far more power-than any of His siblings (except Carnadosa) or even His mother would ever dream of permitting.

“I have fresh information, Anshakar,” the wizard said now, feeling the malevolent will behind those green-shot red eyes beating upon him as he made himself meet their weight steadily. “My art has learned of certain events which couldn’t be predicted when They sent you forth upon this mission.”

“ They? ” Anshakar snarled. The blast of his foul breath rippled the fabric of Varnaythus’ robe, like a gale howling up out of some opened tomb. “There is no ‘they’ who can command me, Wizard! I come at my Master’s bidding-no one else’s!”

“True,” Varnaythus conceded calmly. “Yet He’s commanded you to cooperate with my Lady in this mission, has he not? And told you that His Father has given Her primary direction of it.”

He held the devil’s gaze until Anshakar spat on the dais and snarled something which was probably an affirmative. The dais’ surface smoked and sizzled where the spittle struck, and a reek of brimstone rose from it.

“My Lady has enjoined me to remember that this portion of the mission is yours,” Varnaythus continued, “and I have no desire to attempt to give you commands or require you to do anything other than that which Lord Krashnark has instructed you to do. Yet, by the same token, the overall coordination of the mission falls to me, and that requires me to share information with you as it comes to my hand. Now, are you prepared to hear it?”

Anshakar reclaimed the shredded, oozing torso from where it had fallen and took another huge bite from it. His jaws worked, an icicle of gore dangling from them, and he nodded curtly.

“Speak and be gone,” he snarled through his mouthful.

“Very well. I’m not yet certain, but it seems likely that rather than the single champion of Tomanak you were expected to face, there will be three.”

The creatures seated on either side of Anshakar-Zurak and Kimazh-looked up abruptly, but Anshakar only waved the shredded torso dismissively.

“And you think this is going to change my plans?”

His laugh boomed, and the crouching ghouls shuddered in bestial, ecstatic terror at the sound. The whimpering moan of their fear rose at Varnaythus’ back, but the wizard only shrugged.

“I think it’s information you should have so that you can take it into consideration,” he replied, and Anshakar laughed again.

“You mean you think it’s information I should run and hide from, as you would!” the devil grunted.

“I admit I have no pressing desire to meet the Bloody Hand face-to-face,” Varnaythus said frankly. “His record of success is formidable, and I doubt Walsharno’s presence would make him any easier to defeat. On the other hand, as you yourself pointed out, I’m a wizard, not a warrior. My strengths lie in other areas than direct confrontation with champions, and they aren’t as great as yours to begin with.”

“Your strengths are nothing,” Anshakar sneered. “You and your precious ‘Lady’ are so proud of your little magics, your puny spells. This is strength!”

He held up what was left of his meal in one hand and closed his fist upon it. There was a ghastly, crunching sound as bones pulverized and crushed, and then the entire mangled lump exploded in lurid green fire that roared up into the night, like a meteor homesick for the heavens. It lasted less than a heartbeat, and when he opened that fist again, a few stinking flakes of ash drifted to the dais on the night wind.

“I have drunk the blood of more champions than you could count, Wizard. Champions of Isvaria, of Lillinara and Semkirk…and of your precious, terrifying Tomanak, as well. I personally slew the last champion of Tomanak in all my universe! His head is mounted on the wall above my throne and his precious sword is in my treasure chamber! You think I should fear this Bahzell?”

“How you respond to my information is your own affair,” Varnaythus replied, although it was evident to him that both Zurak and Kimazh were less than delighted by the prospect of confronting Bahzell Bahnakson and Walsharno. “It was my responsibility to see you had it. I’ve done that. And, as is also my responsibility, may I ask before I leave if there happens to be any other information you wish me to seek out for you?”

Anshakar glared at him, but he also sat back in his crude throne, thinking.

“Can you tell me when this terrifying champion of Tomanak will come to end my miserable existence?” he asked after a handful of seconds.

“Not at this moment,” Varnaythus acknowledged. Fresh contempt guttered in Anshakar’s eyes, and the wizard cocked his head. “I know where he is and what his general plans are, but not even the best scrying spell can reveal things which have yet to be decided. If you wish, I can continue to monitor him and send you word when he actually leaves Hurgrum to join their army here in the Ghoul Moor. Should I do so?”

Anshakar waved one clawed hand in a brusque gesture of agreement, and Varnaythus inclined his head ever so slightly again.

“Very well, my art and my agents are at your disposal in that much. I would, however, remind you of the importance of timing in this matter. They’ve made it clear They wish your presence here to remain unsuspected until all the other parts of Their plan are prepared and ready.”

“My Master made that plain enough, Wizard. Just as He made it plain”-Anshakar glared at him-“that He would have little patience with any delays on your part. We are here, these miserable ghouls are prepared, and I thirst for the blood of yet another champion. It’s been too long since the last one. I advise you not to waste my time or my Master’s, or when this is done, you will answer to me.” He bared his fangs. “No matter where you may hide, in any universe, I can find you, Wizard, and if I do, you’ll take little joy from our meeting.”

“I never waste Their time, Anshakar,” Varnaythus said coldly, “and you might find me somewhat more formidable than you think, here in my own world. Nor do I think Milady would look kindly upon any attempt on your part to damage one of Her servants without Her permission.” He smiled thinly. “I readily acknowledge that you could destroy me whenever you chose, but I doubt even you would wish to face Her afterward.”

A deep, rumbling growl grated up out of Anshakar’s chest, and Varnaythus allowed his smile to grow a bit broader.

“And with that, Anshakar, I bid you farewell,” he said. “I have other errands to run if I’m to have all of those other parts of Their plan in readiness soon enough to make you happy.”

“Go. Go! ” Anshakar snarled, and Varnaythus spoke the word of command and vanished once more.