Galvin was only vaguely paying attention to his friends’ conversation. He had been scrutinizing the ground around the foothills, looking for tracks, anything to indicate that others had been this way within the past few days. However, he found only signs of small animals. The druid dismounted and led his big mare toward a dead tree at the beginning of a rise. Wrapping the reins loosely about a branch, he neighed and whinnied at the animal, instructing it to stay in the area until he returned.
“Time’s wasting,” Galvin said, starting up the low rise and motioning for Wynter, Brenna, and the undead to follow him.
The sorceress left her horse near his and sprinted to catch up. Wynter ambled behind them.
The low portion of the hills was much like a savanna, covered with grasses that stretched nearly three feet high. Trees were scattered over the hillsides, their trunks swollen with water and their leafy tops flat. Traveling was difficult because of the incline, and the heat was oppressive, causing Galvin and Wynter to shed their armor. They toted it behind them, bundled inside their cloaks. Bare-chested, they found the warmth easier to handle, especially when an occasional breeze whipped over the savannah, cooling them as it evaporated the sweat from their bodies.
Wynter explained as they traveled that the wizards had no need to make it rain near the mines, since the hills were devoid of crops. Still, the natural rains seemed enough to support the trees and grasses.
By nightfall, their course steepened even more, and Galvin located a wide, well-worn path with deep wagon ruts. Although the Harpers and Brenna were nearly exhausted because they had been pushing themselves so hard, they forced themselves to continue, climbing the steep slope, slowing only when Wynter had difficulty negotiating the sharper grades.
The vegetation had changed once again to resemble a montane forest, and the air was cooler at this elevation. The army pressed on until shortly before dawn, when the trees began to thin.
Brenna was pale from exertion, and even Wynter and Galvin were glad to stop and rest. The druid directed the undead to spread themselves out among the trees, hoping the cover would lessen their chances of being spotted by any patrols or by wizards magically scrying the area.
Lying down on the ground, under the shade of a thick-leafed tree he couldn’t identify, the druid again studied the map. “These marks in the tunnel indicate something—maybe traps, maybe veins of gold, maybe guards. There are two large Xs right outside the mine entrance. I wonder what they indicate.”
“Worrying about it won’t get you an answer,” Wynter said, stretching himself out on a large patch of soft grass and folding his hoofed legs beneath him. “Wake me in a few hours and I’ll stand watch.”
The enchantress settled herself next to the druid and eyed the map. Galvin rubbed her head. “You get some sleep, too.”
As the sun set, painting the mountain peaks vermilion, Galvin moved the undead forward once more. He noticed fewer and fewer animal tracks as they ascended. With the decline in vegetation, there was less food to support wildlife. Bamboo grew in small clumps to either side of the path; the druid suspected a band of bamboo grew at this altitude all the way around the mountain.
In another few hours the bamboo thinned, too, then disappeared, to be replaced by short, coarse grass. The druid noted the caves that dotted the mountainside, but he avoided them. No paths led to them, nor was the ground smooth enough around them to indicate the presence of miners who had tramped the earth flat. As the army continued its climb, the druid began quizzing the few birds he spotted, chirping to them in their own language and learning that a congregation of men could be found on the northern exposure of the mountain.
Within a few hours more, shortly before dawn, the druid found a wide, winding road capped by torches that led to a large black opening in the rocks. It was obviously the entrance to the Thayvian mines.
“Should I go ahead and see what’s going on?” the centaur suggested.
The druid shook his head. “They must know we’re coming. Their sentries have probably spotted us in the distance. The night hides our numbers, but it doesn’t hide the fact that there’s an army on the mountain.”
Galvin took several deep breaths and mentally ran through the possibilities. If Maligor had control of the mines, he would have been there for three or four days. The druid’s force would be fighting the wizard’s darkenbeasts and any other defenses he might have added. If Maligor’s forces were defeated, but the Red Wizard still lived, their task might take them elsewhere in the pursuit of him.
He glanced at Brenna. She appeared worried, her lips pursed in concern.
“Let’s see the mine up close,” the enchantress said, placing a hand around the pouch that held her spell components and returning Galvin’s stare evenly.
The macabre army wound its way up the mountain to the edge of a plateau ringed with torches. A quintet of miners, armed with picks, stood at the entrance to the shaft, a massive black maw between two large oval-shaped rocks. Galvin padded forward, and the eldest miner, a squat, middle-aged, hairless man with a barrel of a chest, stepped forward to meet him.
“Halt!” boomed the man, who sported a tattoo on his brow, barely visible in the torchlight. The tattoo was of a taloned hand, the symbol of Malar The Beastlord.
Galvin stopped and scrutinized the ground, looking for traces of blood and other signs of a struggle. He saw only footprints, likely belonging to the miners.
“I’m the tharchion here, and you are trespassing,” the man stated, showing no fear at the throng of skeletons behind the druid. “Turn your creatures around. We have no place for dead men at the mines.”
“We’re looking for the one who controls the mines,” Galvin returned.
“I control the mines,” the man replied. “Who is your master? Which Red Wizard do you serve?”
Wynter moved between Galvin and the human. “Tharchion,” he said, “our force is not here to attack the mines. Szass Tam, who directs the undead behind us, is fully aware that the mines belong to all the Red Wizards.”
“Then leave!” the tharchion sputtered. “My men must get back to work. Leave now, or I warn you, I will summon my guards to fight your corpses! I’ll call the magic of the mines down on you! You’ll all perish!”
Wynter was persistent. “We want some information, that’s all.”
“Be quick about it, then,” snapped the tharchion.
“Just answer a few questions and we’ll leave. We came here to learn about Zulkir Maligor.”
“Maligor isn’t here,” the tharchion sputtered. The stout man reddened in anger, puffed out his considerable chest, and pointed down the mountain. “Leave while you can.”
Galvin moved to Wynter’s side. The enchantress stayed in the background, digging in her pouch for precious components. She began a simple spell, wanting to know if the tharchion was telling them the truth.
“Was he here?” Wynter continued.
“No!” the tharchion hissed.
The centaur eyed the tharchion, annoyed by his manners. “Maligor moved a large force north recently. Have you seen it? Have you heard rumors of it?”
“Maligor’s force might not have been human,” the druid added.
“I’ve seen nothing unusual,” the tharchion replied, appearing more calm. “The slaves and guards would have reported anything out of the ordinary.” The tharchion squinted his eyes, then they flew open, as if he had just thought of something.
“But I have heard rumors about trouble to the south. Something about an army of Maligor’s gnolls. If your master, Szass Tam, is having difficulties with Maligor, you should investigate to the south. Now leave! Get those stinking undead out of here!”
“We’re sorry to have inconvenienced you, tharchion. Our apologies.” Wynter turned, being careful not to lose his footing, and headed down the mountain. The undead did not move until Galvin started after him.