"It's strange," Tale Splintersteel observed. "We must be creating quite a stir-look's as though they're expect shy;ing a siege!"
For the better part of the morning they approached the dark fortress. Throughout that time, they saw no sign of the valley's inhabitants, though the keep seemed to grow more ominous and sinister with each step closer. The only sign of life was the black stream of smoke that con shy;tinued to drift from the chimney.
They approached along a graveled road that led be shy;tween the fields of the terrace. Ariakas came first, with the naked blade resting casually on his shoulder, gleaming like some surreal but precious metal-liquid turquoise or azure. He made certain that the weapon remained in clear view at all times.
Reaching the double gates, the four companions stood before a wide portal consisting of two solid iron plates mounted on stone hinges. Ariakas knew that each gate must weigh an unimaginable amount. Inwardly, he raised his estimation of Zhakaran skill as craftsmen and builders. Quietly, calmly, he rehearsed the incantation to the spell Wryllish Parkane had taught him. It had been intended to give them access to the keep, but he had never imagined the full scale of the portal that would stand across the path.
"Go away! Strangers are not allowed in Zhakar! Go away, or you will be killed!" A thin, reedy voice came quaveringly over the wall. They could see no speaker, but the words carried clearly to their ears.
"We come in peace-we are a trade mission seeking audience with King Ironcog!" shouted Tale. "Tell him that Splintersteel of Sanction is here!"
"The king is too busy to see you-go back to Sanc shy;tion!"
"We will see the king!" Ariakas shouted, growing impatient.
"No. Go away! Leave our countryman behind when you depart-he will be punished for bringing you here."
Tale Splintersteel cast wide, fearful eyes at his com shy;panions, but they weren't paying any attention to him.
Instead, they stared upward, trying to see any sign of the speaker.
Ariakas decided to proceed. He stepped forward until he stood directly in front of the great, iron gates. Each of the barriers towered upward at least three times his height and was nearly half that in width-dimensions that made him feel very small, indeed. Nevertheless, he murmured a silent prayer to Takhisis and then raised his voice so that it could be clearly heard within.
"I, Highlord Ariakas, command these gates-in the name of a power greater than you can comprehend-to give way before my knock. In the name of majesty and power, I command!"
His heavy fist banged against the gate, once, twice, and again. Booming reverberations echoed around them from the keep and spilled down into the valley beyond.
With a portentous creak, the gates began to swing out shy;ward. Ariakas stepped quickly back, brandishing his sword at the ready, studying the slowly expanding crack between the twin doors. Part of him wanted to gape in surprise, astounded that the simple spell had proven so successful. The dominant portion of his mind retained control, however, and his cool, almost bored inspection of the opening gates indicated that he had never expected any result other than this.
He heard gasps of surprise, even cries of panic, com shy;ing from the fortress. The gap widened, and he saw a wide, refuse-covered courtyard. Robed Zhakar scattered in all directions from the gates, though several armed with swords, crossbows, and battle-hooks crept hesi shy;tantly forward. The gates opened wider, and he saw several dwarves frantically trying to arrest the winch mechanism-but the chain creaked through the gears with automatic, inevitable progression, completely unre shy;sponsive to their efforts.
"Peace," said Ariakas, striding forward to meet the dwarven warriors blocking the door. His voice, his posture, betrayed no hint of the doubts and apprehen shy;sions he felt. "I offer no harm-and many profits."
Thankfully, the Zhakar backed hastily away from the human warrior, their eyes riveted to the unique weapon in his hands. Lyrelee, Tale Splintersteel, and Ferros Windchisel followed him through the gates, and the four of them confronted the dwarves within as the gates ceased their automatic opening.
"You can close them now," Ariakas announced to the gatesmen, who hastily commenced to crank the portals shut.
Several dozen dark-shawled Zhakar crept toward him, weapons raised, but they didn't look as though they intended to attack. Indeed, Ariakas suspected that a simple flick of his great sword would send them scatter shy;ing in panic. Many milky, baleful eyes observed him through slits in the faces of the cloaks.
Ariakas looked around the courtyard of Zhakar Keep. The place was like no other fortress or castle that he had ever seen. The high walls were pierced only by the single gate through which the companions had entered.
The ground inside the compound was a chaotic menage of shallow ravines and low ridges, except for one huge, blocklike building in the center of the grounds. From the roof of this structure emerged the four chim shy;neys they had seen in the distance. Otherwise, the many piles and ridges of dirt eclipsed any other features the courtyard might have held.
"Your turn," Ariakas muttered to Tale Splintersteel. "Tell them why we're here."
The Zhakar cleared his throat and stepped forward. Behind the screening masks, the guardsmen's eyes stud shy;ied him with palpable suspicion and hostility.
"These are not our enemies," began the merchant. "I have brought them here because they can bring great benefits, great prosperity to our realm. That is why it is essential for us to see the king!"
One of the guards stepped cautiously ahead of his fel shy;lows, though he cast a quick glance to the rear-as if ensuring that he had a line of escape, if necessary. This ad hoc leader then turned back to the visitors, scowling angrily.
"You know you can't bring outsiders here!" he snapped to Tale Splintersteel. "Did they make you a pris shy;oner? Are you a hostage?"
"No-not exactly," replied the Zhakar merchant, per shy;haps remembering that at one time he had been a pris shy;oner. "They wish to establish trade with us, and they insist on seeing the king themselves."
Next the spokesman turned to Ariakas. "The punish shy;ment is death for one of our number who brings out shy;siders to Zhakar." His tone was tinted with respect, even a little fear. "You must have been very persuasive."
"Have you not heard of the many-colored blade?" demanded Tale Splintersteel in growing exasperation. "This is the man who can slay a hundred dwarves with shy;out touching his sword to their flesh!"
The pale eyes widened within the slit of the cloak. "It's true, then-what they said about the valley of the Black-rock? That his sword spit fire, and a whole company per shy;ished?"
"Believe every word," urged the merchant sneeringly. "And heed well his sword-lest he use it to bring Zhakar itself crumbling down around your ears!"
Now the eyes widened in definite fear, and Ariakas raised the sword slightly to illustrate the point. The blue blade seemed to float in the air, the most intense color in the courtyard.
"I–I'll go tell the king," said the spokesman finally. "You watch 'em!" he commanded imperiously to his fel shy;lows, obviously relieved to have the chance to escape the presence of that awe-inspiring weapon.
The guards who had been assigned to watch them took their job very seriously, though they seemed far more concerned with the blue-bladed sword than with any other aspect of the visitors' appearance. Ariakas took care to brandish the sword so that it could easily be seen. He even whipped the weapon through several training drills, enjoying the sight of the Zhakar ner shy;vously backing away-as if they expected the thing to explode at any moment.