"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
(1372 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.