Above the great fireplace, poised over a warm bed of glowing embers, a cauldron large enough to hold a man’s body was suspended. Within that vat bubbled a brew of dark brown, with bits of organic matter-the tip of a tentacle, a bit of leathery wing, an eyeball, something that looked distressingly like a child’s hand-occasionally roiling to the surface. A miasma of steamy vapor lingered above the cauldron but also seeped outward to infuse every corner of the great room.
All that was Hoarst’s creation, and all of it he ignored, stalking through the laboratory and on through the anteroom, where three wide halls converged at the keep’s front door. He gave no thought to the locked door at his left, though behind that door was the long stairway leading deep into the rocky ground. Down there, behind a succession of locked doors-and guarded by other, more devious threats as well-was the trove of treasure and possessions that made Hoarst one of the wealthiest men in the world.
Not very long ago, a mere stroll down into that dungeon, with its permanent light spell cast broadly over the piles of gleaming coins, the chests full of precious gems, the bullion and statuary, paintings and vases and chandeliers, would have gladdened his heart, rescued him from the deepest depression. Much of the treasure he had plundered from Palanthas, when he had been the chief Gray Robe of the ruling Dark Knight Council. Oh, there had been lords who outranked him, generals with greater authority than the Thorn Knight Hoarst. But he had feared none of them-no, they had feared him, and he had prospered by their fear.
The rest of the trove had been fair payment given to Hoarst by the half-giant Ankhar the Truth. The Gray Robe had served in the army of the great barbarian as his chief wizard, and for his service, he had been well rewarded. Ankhar’s own treasure wagons had bulged, following his sacking of Garnet and Thelgaard, and the cultureless barbarian had willingly allowed Hoarst to pick and choose from among the objects of art, the enchanted items, and classical statues that had all been tossed together in a jumble.
As a result, the Gray Robe possessed a collection unmatched anywhere on Krynn, save perhaps the palace of some eastern king. Now and then, Hoarst thought about bringing those priceless objects up from the dungeon and scattering them around the barren castle to enliven his mood. It depressed the wizard to realize that he kept putting that off; he really didn’t care to exert the energy, to take the trouble of deciding where to display his treasure.
Of course, his women would have helped. There were nearly two dozen there at that moment. He thought of them as his harem, using them as concubines as well as servants. They were all young and beautiful, and he had collected them from the many corners of the world. They varied in complexion from the alabaster Sirene to women of brown and darkest black. Some were voluptuous, others slender; some short, some tall. There were elf maids and humans among them, for those two races he judged to possess the greatest physical beauty. All were cheerful and accommodating-their cooperation assured, when necessary, by the careful use of a charm spell.
Sirene, the albino, had become something of a favorite lately, spending night after night in his bed. He knew the others were jealous of her, and that pleased him for, in their jealousy, the rest became all that much more eager to do his bidding.
Yet even the pleasure of controlling all those women grew thin and tasteless, feeling like merely another way to bore himself.
He turned to the right, away from the steps leading to his treasure trove. The kitchen lay in that direction and there would be fresh bread-as there always was in the morning-and that kindled a gnaw of hunger in his belly. He was grateful for the sensation, any glimmer of sensation.
Then he felt a chill, as if an unseen filter had passed above the layer of gray cloud, leaving full daylight in the courtyard beyond his windows but somehow sapping even the minimal heat of the day from the air. A knock sounded on the great doors of the keep, a booming thunder that originated only a few steps away and echoed through the lofty, empty halls like some kind of dirge.
Hoarst stepped to the door and opened it, his curiosity piqued. He encountered a man who was wrapped in a black robe, the cloaking so complete as to mask even the fellow’s face. There was a medallion around the masked man’s neck, a disk of gold displaying the emerald eye of Hiddukel.
“Who are you?” asked the magic user.
“I am the Nightmaster, High Priest of the Prince of Lies,” said the other man, bowing formally and entering the hall.
Hoarst nodded, not displeased. Perhaps something interesting would happen after all.
The hobgoblin pulled back the leather flap and leered into the dark, humid hut.
“Lord Ankhar?” he hissed, poised to flee if his intrusion aroused the half-giant’s displeasure.
But Ankhar had been lying awake on his dirty straw pallet, had known that the sun was up and had been for hours already. Nothing had compelled him to rise, so he had just been lying there in the heat of the swamp, listening to the drone of mosquitoes and flies. The hob’s arrival at least gave the suggestion of something happening.
“What is it, Half-Ear?” growled the half-giant. He rolled onto his side and, with great effort, pushed himself up to a sitting position. The great roll of his belly spilled across his thighs, so heavy that it threatened to choke the breath out of his lungs, until he rose first to one knee, and finally to an unsteady standing position.
“Two ogre-lords have come up from Brackwater. They seek your judgment on a matter of dispute.”
“Ah. Tell them I’ll be there soon,” the half-giant declared, scratching his belly and snuffling loudly. Half-Ear bowed and withdrew while Ankhar rooted around on the flat beam propped across a pair of stumps that served as a table-the hut’s only piece of furniture. He pushed aside a pile of cloaks, a moldy half loaf of bread, one of his spare boots, and finally found the gourd of water. He half drank, half rinsed himself and tossed the empty container out the door. Finally he stretched, feeling the knots and kinks in his shoulders and back, wondering when it had happened that he started feeling old.
Emerging into the filtered daylight of his forest stronghold, Ankhar scratched his head and peered around. The camp was small by the earlier standards of his marching army, barely the size of a human village. But it was surrounded by a stout wall of timbers, with a pair of well-guarded gates, and three score small huts were crowded within its enclosure. His favorite companions lived there, a mix of hobgoblins, goblins, and ogres. They served his every whim and did all of his labor, and his reputation and size insured that they remained secure from any threats.
When they had first settled there, following the retreat from Solamnia, some of the humans in his army had dwelt in the headquarters village as well. For some reason, they had departed to set up their own town, just over the nearby ridge. No matter; Ankhar was undisputed lord of the small place.
Ankhar immediately spotted the two ogres who had brought their disagreement to the half-giant lord. Both wore metal helmets, one plumed with a scraggly array of stork feathers, the other wrapped around with a sash of some tattered material that might, once, have been silk. Those badges of honor marked them possibly as chieftains, or at the very least as warriors of importance and influence.
The half-giant got an idea as to the source of their dispute when he spotted an ogress, as tall and broad as each of the warriors, hanging back from the pair. She was seductively clad in a bearskin that she held tightly around herself, while her little eyes cast nervous glances from one ogre to the other. Finally she raised her face to meet Ankhar’s gaze, and he plainly perceived the plea for succor in her beseeching look.