High above this grim scene, a balcony jutted out from the tallest of the temple walls, where monstrous carvings had been cut into its height. The frozen grimaces of demons from beyond time’s long-lost edge howled silently over the gathering, as if adding fuel to the exhortations. A solitary shape leaned on the balustrade, looking down at its minions, watching with deep satisfaction their workings. Around the arena, hunched on its waits, black-winged creatures glared down, restrained by whatever sorcery crackled in the air. Soarwings, bred for warriors of the darkest kind, with sharpened claws and beaks like swords, had the appearance of demonic dragons, as though they would challenge even those masters of the skies if unleashed upon them.
Zuharrin smiled, but his eyes were like coals, hot and filled with power-lust, no hint of humanity in them. Steeped in the powers of ritual magic and demonology, the sorcerer had long ago forsworn his human heritage in search of darker paths to immortality and power. Soon he would be ready to perform the ultimate summoning of that power. As night gathers after sunset, so his power would follow from this working. Below him the acolytes continued with the endless preliminaries, preparing this once hallowed sanctuary, deep in the heart of time-ravaged Xen’drik, for the army that was to be born here. Below them, in the fathomless depths of Khyber itself, the great demon lord T’saagash Mal shrieked and howled in its snare, the dragon chains that had bound it there an eternity ago.
Soon! Zuharrin told himself. Aarnamor will bring the youth and that which he carries—the tools that will unlock this well and bring life anew to T’saagash Mal.
Movement behind him made him turn, his tall, bat-like frame blotting out the grey of the day. A grotesque figure approached from the tunnel, its gargoyle-face grinning up at him. Barely over a foot tall, like some misshapen dwarf, it was a homunculus, created by Zuharrin to run messages for him. It scraped its forehead on the stone floor, spreading scaly arms in supplication.
“Word from Valenar?” said Zuharrin.
When the creature spoke, its voice struggled with human tongue. “Yes, lord. The scouts you loosed sent back messages.”
“Does Aarnamor have the boy?”
“Not yet, lord. The Orien cur fell under the protection of an elf sorceress, but Aarnamor reports that in Pylas Maradal she was taken. Removed.”
“Killed?”
“No, lord. Not yet. She has been shipped to Aerenal. The cleric has seen to it.”
“Where is the Orien whelp?” snapped Zuharrin, his voice carrying the threat of pain.
“In Pylas Maradal, where he is among allies. Too dangerous to capture him there, but now he will follow her, lord. He knows she has been abducted, but not that the cleric was responsible. He has set the trap well.”
“To Aerenal! That is even more dangerous! If the elves recover the horn, I cannot secure it. Where is Aarnamor?”
“Waiting, lord. When the time is right, he will meet the cleric. There are many elves in Aerenal, lord. Some can be bought. The boy is of no value to them, except to sell to your servants.”
“The sorceress is not a threat?”
“No,” sniggered the creature. “A place is prepared for her, a bad place, where her magic will be of no avail. The Madwood.”
Zuharrin’s face shaped itself into a mirthless grin. The Madwood! Yes, that would be perfect. The wild forest, a living nightmare, remote from the world. The cleric had indeed done his work well.
“The boy will be easy meal, once he reaches Shae Thoridor. The Murughel elves, the Stillborn, will simply snare him there. There will be a trap set in the city with the promise of the elf girl as the bait. The Orien youth will not be able to resist it. Then he will be in the cleric’s hands once again. There are many places on the outskirts of Shae Thoridor where Aarnamor can meet them in secret. He will bring the boy and that which he carries to you.”
Zuharrin nodded. “Then I am content.”
The homunculus shuffled away and Zuharrin turned back to the mustering below, watching its movements with renewed relish. Soon. The great rebirth will be soon, and the dragons themselves will shudder, knowing their power is no longer supreme.
Cellester gripped the prow of the privateer and stared ahead at the heaving seas. They rose and fell in great swells, their tops breaking up into white spume that the wind flung away in tatters. The Sea Harlot was in the grip of greater powers, its sleek form like a living thing, magic propelling it at thrice its normal sailing speed through these waters. The cleric’s amulet glowed, adding to the powers at work, those of the dark elves and those of the captain, Vortermars. Cellester brooded on the events of the previous night, his face devoid of expression but his mind in turmoil.
“Pity my ship don’t always shift this quick, eh?” sniffed a voice at his back.
The cleric turned to meet the broken grin of the captain. He was dressed in plain clothes, proof against the gales and testing weather of these seas, coat belted tight. Twin swords and a long dirk hung from it, a reminder of his dubious trade.
“There is always a heavy price to pay for the use of such spells,” said Cellester.
Vortermars indicated the deck and the prisoner stowed below it. “She must be worth it. Special, is she?”
“All you need to know is that she is very dangerous.”
Vortermars screwed up his sea-tanned face. “That’s no lie! Wouldn’t have touched her but for the other elves. Know what you’re dealing with, eh? Murughel. Nasty bastards, but it took all their black power to keep her in check.”
“You’ll be paid well enough.”
“I ain’t complainin’. Your gold’s no different to anyone else’s. Don’t suppose it’ll be the last time I deal with the Stillborn. Since the War ended, Khorvaire’s a smoking ruin. Everyone’s looking after himself. Dog eat dog, eh?”
Cellester didn’t answer, eyes fixed on the horizon where Aerenal would eventually rise up.
“I could be of further service to you,” Vortermars went on, spitting over the rail. “There’ll be a hunt for this girl, no? Family, warclan, whatever. Eh?”
“Perhaps.”
“Sure as the sea’s the sea. Someone will miss her.”
Cellester eyed him coldly. “You are certain that I was not implicated in this? It is important that no one knows it was my work.”
“Crew’s as tight-lipped as they come, but she’s a sorceress. They’ll follow. If it’s just one ship, I could sink it and all its crew for you, elves or no. If it’s a fleet, I could lead it a right dance until it was way off the scent, eh?”
Cellester’s eyes widened. “No. I don’t want that, but there is more I need you to do.”
Vortermars scowled. “You want to be followed?”
“There’ll be a youth, an Orien, possibly in the company of a peddler. They may be protected.”
“Peddler, eh? Got a name?”
“Does it matter?”
“I stay alive by knowing who’s skulking about in my waters.”
“His name is Nyam Hordath.”
Vortermars snorted, again spitting into the sea. “Nyam Hordath, eh? Well, well. What’s that old fox sniffing around here for?”
Cellester masked his unease. “You know him?”
“There’s not a pirate sinkhole on these coasts that don’t. Been wheeling and dealing for years. Must have a bigger stash than any of us. So he’s with this Orien boy, eh?”