Cellester’s face had gone white with repressed fury, but he did not speak.
“My mother was loved by many,” said Vaddi, “and honored by them.”
Caerzaal laughed again. “Of course, I am sure you have faith in this cleric. He has spent a lifetime courting that faith.”
Again Vaddi felt the grip of Nyam’s fingers.
“We are not here to bicker over such trivial things,” Caerzaal said, turning his back on them and walking away. “The powers of Voorkesh are eager to spring the chains that bind them. There is an appointed time. Tonight, with the tenth moon in ascendancy, you will share in these new powers. You shall drink the Blood of Vol.” He looked up into the dark vault overhead. “As that sacred light falls across the stone, we will indulge ourselves in a common destiny.”
“You underestimate the power of the Crimson Talisman,” said Cellester.
Caerzaal turned, lips drawn back in a sneer. “I think not. The boy will fill it with his blood, and we shall drink it. All those here. See! A hundred of them. All to be enriched as the horn fills and fills again. What warriors we shall become! What gods!”
“I will destroy you all first!” said Vaddi.
“No,” said Caerzaal, shaking his head as though party to some deep secret. “No, you’ll do as commanded. The price of refusal will be more than you or your two companions could bear. I promise you.”
Without another word or glance, Caerzaal was gone. Before any of them could react, the two vampire guards used their swords to indicate that they should quit the chamber. In silence they were herded across its floor to another arched doorway, through it and up a spiral stair beyond. They climbed in sullen silence, far up inside the heart of the temple, until they came to a narrow corridor and a room leading off from it. They were thrust into this, the thick wooden door bolted behind them. A single lamp lit the circular room, which was completely devoid of furnishings or windows.
Nyam slumped down, back against the curve of the wall. “The tenth moon,” he murmured. “Sypheros. Not a good omen. Caerzaal will call upon terrible forces.”
Cellester was deep in thought. “It seems the Claw is active everywhere.”
Vaddi sat down. “We have the talisman,” he said hopefully.
“In this place, it would be dangerous to use it,” said Nyam, looking at the cleric, who nodded in resigned agreement.
“What is the tenth moon?” said Vaddi.
Cellester shook his head. “I know very little of the Claw’s methods or of its ceremonies, but they use astrological alignments in them and draw on very ancient powers. The tenth moon, Sypheros, has long been tied to the powers of Shadow. If Caerzaal would draw on the powers of Voorkesh, they will be frightful indeed. It may well be that if you try to use the horn or I my amulet their powers will be warped. You heard Caerzaal refer to the horn as the Crimson Talisman. Instead of countering his dark powers, it will enforce them. Your blood, Vaddi, will be tainted. If you use the horn, you will be playing into his hands.”
“Read its inscription again,” said Nyam.
Vaddi was reluctant to draw out the horn, but he did so cautiously and read the runes that were embossed upon it. He remembered Nyam’s translation:
“The horn dispenses great power for good or for evil,” said Cellester. “Caerzaal’s heart is harsh. If he controlled the horn, he would use it to open gateways that have been locked for eons.”
“Then do we simply submit to this ritual?” snapped Nyam. “Are we to be like goats of sacrifice?”
“Caerzaal spoke of the price of refusal if I do not obey him,” said Vaddi. “What did he mean?”
Cellester shook his head, but Nyam snorted. “He will give you the dubious pleasure of watching the cleric and myself being subjected to the worst of his rituals. Nothing could prepare you for that.”
7
Under Cover of Daylight
High above the Endworld Mountains the soarwing circled in silence, the beat of its wings no heavier than those of a moth, wrapped as they were in sorcery. Below, among the jagged peaks that poked up from pitch darkness into the light of the Eberron’s moons, the massive saurian sensed the comings and goings of many creatures. The eagles that had wheeled here during daylight were in their secluded aeries, heads bowed against the night and the things that shifted in it.
On the back of the soarwing, Aarnamor studied the broken peaks. With a mental command, he brought his reptilian mount around in one last sweep, gliding downward. With uncanny, instinctive skill, the great shape wove its way between peak after peak, barely evading the naked fangs of rock where one touch would have sent the soarwing tumbling to its doom. Aarnamor, like the beast he rode, had sensed life below. For days he had used his supernatural skills to smell out the progress of the three travellers, tracking them to Voorkesh, the dread city that even he was wary of. He could sense the terrors that welled up from those ruins.
The soarwing dropped to the bizarre buildings, gliding to the uppermost tower of a central mausoleum. Weightless as a shadow, talons gripped, wings folded over so that in a moment it had become one with the building, invisible to all but a sorcerer’s eye. Aarnamor whispered something to his mount then slipped from it like a ghost. He paused to listen, as if he could hear the very structure breathing beneath him.
Near the apex of the tower, he found a jagged crack in the ancient stonework and slid into it, lowering himself down, his body shifting like mist. All was darkness, profound and impenetrable, but the undead warrior used other senses developed by his master’s sorcery, magic as old as these mountains. Every sound that came from within the building, deep down to its foundations, Aarnamor heard, analyzed, and considered. It was not long before he had learned what he needed to know.
He passed lower through dingy, curling passages until he came to a dusty landing. There was a light up ahead cast from cold fire. Evidently the servants of this city used this tower He could smell their minions in force farther down below him.
Aarnamor moved down the passage like a stirring of air, one with the shadows. Ahead of him the passage opened. There was a room off it outside of which two guards stood, so motionless they might have been statues, but Aarnamor could sense the half-life within them. Like him, they were undead, but he knew them at once for the mindless reanimates of the Emerald Claw. Beings of a far lower order, they did not have his mental power. He stepped before them.
Zombies though they were, the undead reacted quickly enough, swords cutting the air inches from the intruder, but Aarnamor evaded them with lightning ease. His own blade rang against theirs, sparks hissing in the dim light. The first of the guards was about to cry out, but Aarnamor’s weapon sliced through his windpipe and the creature’s mouth hung slack. There was another clash of blades, but the contest was soon ended. Aarnamor’s speed made him a blur. He decapitated the guards, and though their bodies stumbled about aimlessly, fingers groping at the air, they were useless. He waited, listening to the darkness of the spiral stair that led down from this place, but he heard nothing.
At the door to the room, he paused, slid back the bolts, and pushed the door inward very slowly. He sensed that the three men beyond were coiled like springs, about to launch themselves at him.
Within the room, the three men felt the coming of something inhuman. They heard the clash of blades then utter silence. The bolts slid and the door creaked open slowly. Vaddi drew back, fingers touching the talisman.