Tyranos suddenly looked around at their surroundings, noting that there were many shadows lurking in the vicinity. “I do believe you’re right, Solamnian. Unfortunately …”
The beating of wings filled the air.
The gargoyles dropped from every direction.
Stefan slid into a battle stance, and his blade sliced cleanly through the paw of the first creature to near him. Tyranos planted his back to the knight and battered another gargoyle with the crystal head of his staff. Despite the crystal’s fragile appearance, the gargoyle’s bones cracked loudly. The injured creature went tumbling to the ground and crawled away.
The knight pulled free a dagger, which he waved in tandem with his sword. He slashed through the wings of another attacker, causing it to collide with another one close by. The Solamnian moved with a speed and accuracy so startling that the wizard watched him with fascination.
“By the Kraken! How can you move like that?”
“I am the vessel of my patron,” Stefan quietly responded, piercing another gargoyle through the chest before its claws could scrape away his face. “My gifts are from him.”
The wizard snorted. He muttered a word, and his staff grew three sharp talons of steel where the crystal and the base met. With those sharp talons, he put an end to another beast. Yet for all those he and the Solamnian had slain or injured, the numbers seeking to reach them appeared to be endless.
Through the mass of wings and gray bodies, Tyranos spotted a figure that was not a gargoyle. The gray and black, shadowy form stared back at him with its icy, white eyes. Eyes that hinted, at least to Tyranos, of amusement.
With a thundering roar, the wizard broke from Stefan. He thrust the staff forward.
“Tyranos! Come back!”
“Tivak!” called the wizard.
As they had previously, strands of silver energy shot forth from the crystal. The gargoyles in Tyranos’s way scattered. He had a clear path to the sinister figure.
“No!” called Stefan. His hand seized the wizard by the cowl and, despite Tyranos’s mighty size, he threw the spell-caster to the side.
A fiery light surrounded the Solamnian, a light that exploded into true hot flames. Stefan cried out.
Tyranos pushed himself to his feet. He looked quickly not at the knight, but to where he had last seen the icy-eyed figure. As with the last time the two had met, the gargoyle’s master had again vanished.
“May the Maelstrom take you!” the spellcaster swore at his absent foe. He turned his attention back to the Solamnian, certain the human was dead. But Stefan was still alive. Indeed, although clearly in pain, the cleric-down on both knees-looked almost untouched by the fiery blast, even though the ground all around him was scorched black.
With a groan, the Solamnian fell face down.
The gargoyles had retreated the moment before their master’s attack, but they swooped down again. Tyranos tightened his hold on the staff and opened his mouth. With a curl of his lip, he dove toward the knight’s still figure. He wrapped one thick arm under Stefan’s breastplate.
The gargoyles fell upon them. Tyranos beat back the first few before concentrating on the staff.
He and Stefan vanished.
The moment the pair disappeared, the winged furies settled down. The vast flock perched upon the rocks, or simply alighted on the ground. They sat silent, not even beating their wings.
At the very place where Stefan had taken the brunt of the spell cast against Tyranos, the ghostly figure materialized. As one, the gargoyles lowered their heads and emitted low hisses with a respectful tone.
The icy-eyed form ignored the gargoyles, instead reaching down and thrusting out a thin, bony hand as starkly white as the orbs that gazed at the scorched area. With its index finger, the figure drew a circle around the area, a circle that momentarily burst into flames and became a band of gold light.
A slight laugh escaped the hidden mouth. As the figure straightened, the gold band faded away.
The gargoyles’ lord looked to the right, the east.
To the Vale of Vipers.
XV
The horns from the quarry had been heard by sentries, who had reported them to their officers in Sadurak. Their commander had reported them to Jod’s officer in charge. The officer knew of no reason why anyone would be attacking Sadurak, but he was an ogre, and an ogre must always be ready for battle.
Jod had learned the new discipline and methods well from Golgren, and he had passed on his knowledge to his subcommanders. Thus, the officer in charge not only prepared a force to go out to meet the intruders, but also set the city’s defenses into motion.
When the enemy did show itself, it was not one that any of the defenders expected. The ogres were clad just as they were, and many recognized the hand to which the attackers belonged. But if there had been any question as to whether their fellows were a threat or not, that was answered by the Uruv Suurt marching among their ranks. Ogres and minotaurs did not march together unless one was the slave of the other, or both served the same taskmaster. The only time they had ever joined forces before had been due to Golgren himself, and that alliance was long dead.
But someone else had evidently forged a new one. The ogres did not march as servants of the horned ones, nor did the legionaries look at all ill at ease in the company of their former masters.
“Pikes!” growled the officer in charge, sending up ranks of warriors to the forefront. Like Jod, he had fought against and alongside the Uruv Suurt in the past. But his ogre fighters would form ranks as neat as any human knight or Uruv Suurt legionary. Behind the pike wielders formed ranks bearing swords, axes, and clubs; and behind them, archers-more archers than had ever been counted among an organized force of ogres. Jod had absorbed Golgren’s teachings as if they came from the gods. Archers had slain more ogres than any other enemy tactic. Ogres, therefore, needed to train at archery. They were not as skilled as Uruv Suurt, but they were competent.
There were not only a surprising number of archers among those massing to meet the enemy, but they dotted the walls of Sadurak too. There were also catapults-a device “borrowed” from the Uruv Suurt-lined up at the walls above. Jod had spent many hours training their users until he felt they were able to fire with the utmost accuracy.
Huge forms suddenly strode over the horizon. That the enemy had brought mastarks was no surprise. The defenders had mastarks, too, at least as many, and they were as well trained as mastarks could be.
The warriors were ready. The enemy was nearly in position. But Jod’s officer had no intention of leading his fighters out to confront them. Golgren had taught his followers to bide their time and let the prey come to them, just as a good predator did. The easiest victim was the one who believed there was nothing to fear. They were the ones who stepped into the jaws of the meredrake.
And the newcomers appeared to be over eager. The blood of the traitors and their Uruv Suurt allies would soon drench the parched soil.
Surprisingly, the enemy began spreading out, creating a great wide arc that thinned their ranks in such a manner that the archers’ volleys would surely be less effective. However, the defenders were not yet concerned. Many would still perish, and those on the ground would deal with the rest as they battered themselves against the defenses of the city.
Among the enemy, a horn suddenly blared. The first lines started forward.
They were close enough. The senior officer raised his fist. Atop the walls, one of the trumpeters sounded the signal.
The archers aimed. A breath later, a second, longer blast sounded.