He wanted to be mad because they were still using her tomb to hide their portals, but he was too sick and there were too many things that had to be done. He kissed his fingers, laid them on the glass over Fiana’s beautiful face, then staggered toward the light.
One of Yuan’s henchmen had the door to the mausoleum partway open. It was late afternoon in Vorgreberg. Bragi stepped out far enough to look westward. The descending sun had settled behind the hill already.
Haroun and Yasmid emerged. Bin Yousif said something about the milder weather.
Minutes passed. Ragnarson began to frown. The others should have come through by now… Ah. Here came Scalza, indignant about having to miss the impending battle, but without much real vigor. Michael Trebilcock was two minutes behind the boy, patiently chivvying Ekaterina, who was thoroughly put out. Nepanthe followed, with the baby. Smyrena was terrified.
Nobody looked like they had come through without feeling terribly ill. Yasmid appeared especially sick, and troubled by concerns about how the transfer might have affected her unborn child.
“All right,” he growled. “We’re all freaking unhappy to be here and we’re all hung over. But we are here and they aren’t going to let anybody go back till the excitement is over. I’m going to be hungry when my gut settles down. I reckon the rest of you will be, too, so let’s go someplace where we can find food and fire.”
Lord Yuan came outside. “Please hurry, Majesty. To the castle. And send our people back out here. We have a task for them.” He paused several beats before adding, “And we will do our best to leave this memorial in at least as good a condition as we found it.”
He sounded quite sincere.
“Thank you. I’ll send them right away.”
…
Josiah entered Inger’s private quarters using the secret passageway. He seemed particularly uncomfortable. “Josiah? Are you…? Should you be with Wachtel?”
“Ah…probably. Though I think this is more mental than physical. A rider just came in. The King is back, with a party that appears to include…” He suffered a spasm of some sort. He pulled himself together, offered several unlikely names in addition to that of Michael Trebilcock. “They could be at the gate by now.”
“Damn.” Said without any real fire. “We can’t run them off so let’s bring out Nathan and Babeltausque and deal with it.”
…
Mist felt ill and was nearly exhausted when she left the darkness for the orderly quiet of the Wind Tower, where Varthlokkur was half lost inside the Winterstorm. The others were just waiting. The Disciple and his Matayangan friend, whom she continued to pretend not to recognize, crowded a shadowed alcove, shivering. Ethrian, Lord Kuo, and the Old Man sat around the shogi table. A game was in progress but nobody was paying attention.
She asked, “They all got out, then?”
Lord Kuo: “Some took more convincing than others. Ekaterina in particular. But we got her to understand that she would go regardless of what had to be done to make that happen.”
Mist eyed Ethrian, one eyebrow raised.
Ethrian said, “I was too big for even Michael Trebilcock to shift since he already had his hands full with your wildcat daughter.”
Mist could not restrain a smile. “She has potential.”
“Scalza only argued a little.”
The Old Man said, “That one calculates.”
“Yes.” She eyed Varthlokkur. The wizard was so busy he had yet to acknowledge her presence. “How soon? Do we know?”
Wen-chin said, “There are demons in the air now, carrying iron statues. We can’t track himself so we’ll have to wait for him to get inside visual range. Always assuming that he comes in person.”
Mist nodded. She did not doubt that Old Meddler would want to stand witness to his wickedness. She was counting on it, in fact. She turned to peer into the darkened end of the chamber. The stasis sphere from long ago, resurrected and refurbished, awaited Old Meddler there. She hoped that phase of Varthlokkur’s scheme worked out.
Ethrian said, “All we can do is wait.”
She agreed. “We wait.”
“Not long,” the Old Man said. “And this time will make an end.”
…
Old Meddler finished instructing the demons that would attack Fangdred. Thirteen would go, in two waves, none pleased to be involved. They expected nothing good to come of this. Great demons had died already. Dead, for real and forever. That did not happen on this plane. Not credibly. Never before.
The old villain had constrained them completely, however. They could do nothing but go forward and execute his will, so long as he survived. And he had made sure they could not seize on that loophole, even by aiding his enemies through inaction.
They would go, those lords of the demon plane, carrying two iron statues, neither of those especially overwhelming. They would attack Fangdred. Some would get hurt, perhaps badly. He had not lied to them about that. But he was confident that they would end this latest threat for all time.
His ka would go with them while his flesh remained in the Karkha Tower. Demons would come for his flesh once Fangdred fell and its thousand booby traps had been disarmed. He would then appropriate the magic of Varthlokkur and his bitch Tervola ally. Both would be invaluable in ages to come.
He settled himself, left his flesh, entered the smallish demon that would carry his consciousness northward. They set out.
Scout demons soon reached the Dragon’s Teeth. They were linked to all the others. What one saw, all could see. The scouts were particularly important. Fangdred’s exact location remained mysterious.
Yes, Old Meddler had been there before but Fangdred was hidden now, behind sorcery of both Dread Empire weaving and of Varthlokkur’s creation. A visual search was unavoidable.
Last time a furious storm was raging. This time the sky was nearly cloudless, though there was moisture in the air that captured and scattered the light of a moon that was almost full. Only the brightest stars stood out, against a background that was blue indigo rather than black.
The demon scouts stood out, too, as bleak absences of light snaking about like serpents swimming, dragon-size, sniffing for Fangdred’s unnatural warmth. The enemy would not betray himself with outside lights.
There. A fierce peak where stone had been shaped and piled by Man.
The scouts circled, waiting for the rest of their wave. Old Meddler eased in closer, wondering if he had not found the hidden fortress too easily. Were they trying to lure him in?
He encountered a limit beyond which his demon steed could not pass.
No. Definitely not trying to lure him. But they knew he was coming. And they had not run. They meant to make a stand. They did want him to attack, maybe to spend his strength getting through to them.
He prowled and probed. He would give them what they wanted. They could not survive the power he had brought to the game.
There was a momentary lapse in Fangdred’s protection. He darted through, only beginning to feel uncomfortable after he had. Had they let him in?
No. Someone had used a transfer portal. Evidently the barrier had to go down while that happened.
His vision grew fuzzy nearer the fortress. He approached cautiously, wondering why he was afraid. He doubted that he could be done any harm. Should his guide be hurt he could just break loose and be pulled back to his flesh.
He aimed for the Wind Tower, which rose above the bulk of the improbable fortress. His demon could not penetrate solid stone but it found a place where a lack of mortar would let it slide a tendril between blocks. Old Meddler took his consciousness through, crawling along that slender thread. The viewing inside was more vague and distorted, still. He pulled demon, stretched demon, took his consciousness down a floor, then drew back and went up to the level where his enemies had gathered.
What? No! This could not be!
The Old Man pushed a shogi piece forward. The Deliverer made a comment about the move.