Tall, slender wands of vapor waved above some of the shapes, as if spectral spears were held aloft. Here and there Ankhar saw round disks, like primitive shields, also raised in the air. Wispy blades waved back and forth in the grasp of some of the smoke shapes, and all the intangible weaponry was arrayed toward the three surface dwellers who had dared to trespass on this ancient, long-forgotten killing ground.
“Destroy them! Blast them with magic!” Ankhar barked to Hoarst, his voice, suddenly loud and startling, a violation of the eerie silence.
“These beings would not be vulnerable to the kind of magic I possess,” Hoarst croaked, the usually imperturbable magic-user sounding, to Ankhar’s ears, deeply shaken. Testing his own doubts, Hoarst raised a trembling finger and shouted a magical word of command. Arrows hissed and sparked outward from his accusing digit, magic missiles streaking into the darkness, piercing one then another of the ghostly, advancing smoke shapes. The arcane projectiles continued on until they faded and vanished, but the specters advanced unchecked, unhampered by the magical fusillade.
They were close now, and Ankhar thought he detected faces in the grotesque mist figures-visages locked into expressions of eternal torment. Mouths flexed, and though they made no sound, the half-giant felt the blast of cold breath against his skin. It was colder than a winter gale in the high mountains. The mighty warrior, commander of a horde of thousands, slayer of a hundred enemies, felt his knees weaken, and he staggered backward. A grievous moaning reached his ears, but he was only vaguely aware that it emerged from his own, slack-jawed mouth. He stared into hundreds of empty eye sockets, his bowels churning at the looks of hatred and hunger he perceived there.
“Courage!” snapped Laka. “See how they feed upon your fear!”
It was the truth: as Ankhar’s terror weakened him, the spectral warriors grew stronger, lunging for their victims now, stabbing with their vaporous spears. One ghostly tip touched the half-giant’s knee, and he felt a sharp pain. The contact was icy and quickly spread numbingly up and down his leg. He stumbled, grasping his spear and using the stout haft as a crutch. There was no thought of using the weapon to fight these things; he understood instinctively that certainly no blade on Krynn could damage them.
“Back to the wall,” Hoarst whispered. His voice broke, and it terrified Ankhar further to realize that even the redoubtable wizard was frightened.
Slowly the trio retreated, but there was no real escape. The spectral images came at them from three sides, stopping just a few paces away, filling ranks into a solid mass. The black wall rose behind the trio, an impassable barrier. They were surrounded.
“What are these things?” Ankhar said in a low voice.
“They are ghosts of the slain,” Laka declared with surprisingly calmness. “They have been here for ages, thousands of years, longing for the feel of warmth, the touch of the sun-or of blood.”
“How do you know this?” demanded Hoarst incredulously.
“They were part of my dream,” replied the old hob-wench. Her left hand cradled some of the baubles on her necklace while her eyes darted back and forth across the ranks of spectral warriors.
“You knew about these things?” Ankhar was aghast, resisting an impulse to bash his stepmother senseless. But fear was a greater impulse, and the half-giant understood that only Laka could rescue them from this horror.
Her bony fingers continued to caress the beads on her necklace while her right hand still clutched the haft of her totem. Apparently she located the right combination of stones, for she abruptly raised the death’s-head with its green gems fixed like eyeballs on the encroaching spirits.
“Fear the Prince of Lies!” she crowed exultantly. “Truth shall be his sword!
“Kneel before Lord Ankhar! Hail him as your lord!”
Green light pulsed from the skull’s face, a brilliant wash shooting through the vast battlefield. Ankhar saw ridges outlined in the distance, gaps in the rough ground, and hundreds, even thousands, of the ghostly warriors amassed before the trio. The beams of emerald illumination seemed to transfix them, however, for suddenly they all halted, trembling and shivering in a grotesque caricature of awe, terror, or wonder.
“Hold, warriors of the ages!” Laka cried again, louder. “For you are in the presence of a mighty lord! Kneel, all of you!”
Ankhar heard a faint sound, barely, at first, like a slight breeze keening through a forest of leafless trees. It swelled very slowly, becoming a moan, then a cry, and finally building into a howl. The shrieking erupted from all around, and the half-giant had to resist the urge to clap his hands over his ears. But he stood tall and held his hands at his sides, knowing he needed to project an aura not just of fearlessness, but of command and power. One by one, the ghostly forms slumped, a semblance of humans dropping to their knees. The eerie genuflection rippled outward through the vast, silent ranks.
“Are these ghosts my new ally?” Ankhar asked Laka wonderingly. “They could terrify the humans, surely.”
“No,” the shaman replied curtly. “They would perish under the sky, as soon as they felt the kiss of the sun. They are condemned to remain here, to guard the legacy of their defeat and death, though their time, the Age of Dreams, is long past.”
“Then, why?” demanded the commander of the horde. “Why are we here, risking our own deaths?”
“The answer is simple. They are merely one obstacle-another obstacle, like the cliff we just floated down-on the path to our destination. Behold, now: the power of Hiddukel will hold them at bay. But do not let them detect your fear-the blessing of the Prince will only benefit those who have the courage of victors.”
“Lead, then,” grunted Ankhar. “And we show our courage.”
Laka started forward, her totem held high, the green light sweeping back and forth across the faces of the ghostly warriors. Their intangible spears still waved in the air, and their grotesque mouths gaped and flexed hungrily. But as the half-giant and the wizard followed the old hobgoblin, the crowded ranks of spirits parted to let them pass.
The shaman went first. Ankhar strode after Laka with Hoarst trailing behind. The gaping faces glared, the eerie sockets and mouths twitched and quivered, but the half-giant was determined to maintain his fiercest expression and his steady pace.
If any of the spirit beings so much as started to ease into their path, the ancient hobgoblin spat a curse and shook her beads to warn them out of the way. Laka glared to the right and left, brandishing her totem as if it were a mighty weapon.
It seemed to take forever, though Ankhar would later reflect that they passed through the silent ranks of ghost shapes in a matter of moments. Their destination was a gap that gradually materialized in the far wall of the underground canyon, a passage that wound out of sight, descending ever deeper into the sunless world beneath Krynn.
Behind them, the silent army stood waiting, watching… hungering for warmth and blood.
CHAPTER EIGHT
C oryn hired a company of drummers, all dressed in red satin tunics with shiny leather boots. The leader of each section-bass, kettle, and snare-wore a hat with lofty plumes. They gathered before her manor with great fanfare and made a splendid procession as they led the lord marshal and the wizard, both mounted on white horses, through the heart of the city and up toward the gates of the lord regent’s palace.
The procession attracted a great deal of attention. Goodwives hoisted their babes onto their shoulders so they could see the famous man and the beautiful wizard ride past. Soldiers and merchants cheered, and even the sergeants of the Palanthian Legion saluted smartly as the procession passed through the city gates. On they went, climbing the winding road toward the lord regent’s palace, advancing directly through the open gates and leaving the swelling crowd behind.