Bladesinger Page 7

  “Hush, Imsha. There is no need to harangue the poor girl,” the young woman broke in. Her voice remained soft and smooth, but watching her in the soft light, Marissa caught a hint of fire in her green eyes, an open challenge.

  All of a sudden, she didn’t feel quite so secure anymore. She recalled a favorite saying of her teachers: “The Lion never lies when it kills.” Truth was as necessary as the sun in the world, she thought, and maybe even more necessary here.

  “I am Marissa Goldenthorn, daughter of Rillifane Rallathil, and a servant of nature,” she proclaimed proudly.

  Imsha snorted and slapped her leg with a bony hand.

  “Listen to her, Tamlith,” Imsha said to the young woman, “going on about her name.” Then, suddenly, she leaned close to Marissa. The druid caught the faint scent of rosemary and mint. “So,” Imsha continued, “you belong to Old Greenshanks, do you? Well, little kitten, his power is far from here.” The old woman’s eyes glowed with purplish light.

  Marissa knew that she should be afraid. Imsha was right; Rillifane’s power burned low in Rashemen. She wasn’t sure if he could protect her now. Here. In this place. Still, he had asked her to come, and she would not fail him.

  “Rillifane’s power may be far from Rashemen,” the druid responded firmly, “but there is true power in the hills and plains of this land. He asked me to come, and I did. If I may be of service to this power, then at his request I shall do so.”

  “Hmm … hmm …,” Imsha mumbled. “I see that the kitten has claws.”

  “And sight,” Tamlith added, “for she sees true.”

  “Is that so?” asked Imsha. “Then tell me, my tiger—who are we?”

  Both women stood now, forcing Marissa to gaze up at them. She tried to stand but found herself rooted in place.

  “You are telthor,” she answered, after a moment of thought, “tied to the Red Tree of Immil Vale.”

  “What else?” asked Tamlith, expectation apparent in her soft voice.

  Marissa closed her eyes to concentrate—and nearly gasped with surprise. She could still see both Imsha and Tamlith standing over her. At last, the answer came, like a fresh breeze after a winter gale.

  “You are witches,” she said finally, “and you’ve somehow transformed your essences to become linked with the Red Tree.”

  “Witches,” Imsha barked, clearly taking umbrage with the title. “Little tiger, we are othlor, the Wise Ones of the hathran who lead the wychlaran. Still,” she continued, reaching out her hand to Marissa, “you saw and spoke the truth.”

  “Which is more than some among us do,” added Tamlith.

  The druid accepted Imsha’s hand and stood up, grateful for the freedom. “I don’t …” Marissa hesitated. “I don’t understand.”

  “You will, my dear,” the old woman said, patting the druid gently on her cheek. Both of the witches were smiling now. “For there is poison at the root, and we all wither and die while it eats away at us.”

  “Enough riddles,” Tamlith said to her companion. “Though time moves differently here, there is still much for her to do.” Turning to Marissa, the young witch’s smile disappeared. “Rashemen is in grave danger,” she said simply. “One of our number has betrayed us and broken the ildva, the bond that we have forged with the vremyonni. Even now, this traitor bends her blasphemous will upon the land. She holds an Old One imprisoned and uses his very being to power her own corrupt spells.”

  “The ildva has held our land together,” continued old Imsha. “Through countless centuries the vremyonni and the wychlaran have defended Rashemen from all enemies. With the ancient bond broken, we are weakened. It has kept the peace between us and prevented either group from struggling against the other for dominion of the land. Already the vremyonni refuse counsel with the hathran, suspecting us of betrayal. They scheme now within their own dark caverns, plotting the downfall of the wychlaran. Without the ildva, I fear for the future of Rashemen.”

  Marissa shook her head in disbelief. This was almost too much for her to handle. She had come to the Red Tree hoping for—what? She didn’t even know, but finding herself in the middle of an arcane struggle between the ancient protectors of Rashemen was the farthest thing from her mind. She could almost hear Roberc swearing now, and the thought nearly brought a chuckle to her lips. Marissa clamped down on it fast. This, clearly, was not the time, but what was she to do?

  “Why don’t you just inform the other hathran of what’s happened?” Marissa asked the two witches. “Why do you even need me?”

  Tamlith frowned. “We do not know who she is,” Tamlith said. “She is strong—and cunning. All of our auguries and oracles have been turned aside by her power. The telthor do not know whom to trust, so we asked for help.

  “And you came,” Tamlith said, “but we have little time. Though we do not know the traitor’s identity, we can feel her power like a canker on the land. She is concentrating her forces in the ruins of Citadel Rashemar. If she unleashes her forces, Rashemen will be divided against itself. Even if the wychlaran manage to win, it won’t be long until the wizardlings in Thay smell blood and come raging into Rashemen like a pack of rabid wolves.”

  Marissa raised a hand to her head, trying to keep the jumble of her thoughts together.

  “What can I do?” Marissa asked.

  The old witch smiled and drew something from the folds of her robe.

  “Take this,” Imsha said, indicating a knotted yew limb about Marissa’s height, “to the Urlingwood. Stand before the border of that forest and use its power. It will summon the living othlor.”

  Marissa could only nod her head. “You just said you didn’t know who to trust. What if one of the othlor is the traitor?”

  “When you have summoned the othlor,” Imsha replied, “I will come to them. My power is weakening, for the traitor’s corruption taints the very land itself, but if the evil one is among them, I will know. This will expend all of my strength, but at least you will have the wisdom and power of the Wise Ones to guide you further.”

  “What of my companions?” asked Marissa.

  The question drew a smile from Tamlith. “They will be your compass and your strength,” the young witch replied. “Keep them close to you, especially the one who is a twisted branch. He will need tending, but there is much power in him.”

  “Who—” Marissa started to ask but stopped as Imsha raised a weathered hand.

  “I am sorry, little tiger,” the old woman said, “but we must leave you.” As she said this, a thin mist began to rise, turning the darkness into a soft blanket of gray. “Will you help us in Rashemen’s time of need?” she asked.

  The druid looked at both telthor, watching the outlines of their bodies flicker and fade in the shifting mist. There was so much she didn’t understand; so much she needed to understand. Her duty, however, remained clear. Marissa offered a quick prayer to Rillifane Rallathil then spoke her answer.

  “I will help you,” she declared.

  Both witches bowed low to her.

  “Then farewell, Marissa Goldenthorn, daughter of Rillifane, servant of nature, and sister of our heart. You have answered the land’s need, and we are grateful,” Imsha said.

  The world shifted and darkness returned.

  “Farewell, sister,” she heard Tamlith say, as if from across a great distance. “Perhaps we shall meet again one day.”

  Then she heard no more.

  Taen woke with a start. Bright sunlight poured into his eyes, burning away the distant memory of a dream—of two mysterious women whispering wisdom into his ear. He rubbed his eyes vigorously and cursed at his own lack of discipline. He’d fallen asleep.

  Asleep! After he’d vowed to keep watch over Marissa through the night.

  A shadow fell over the half-elf, and he nearly cried out in surprise.

  “Wake the others, Taenaran,” Marissa said softly. “We have much to discuss.”

  CHAPTER 9

  The Year of Wild Magic

  (137
2 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.