The highmaster knew that if she called Cear, the dragon would arrive and belch flames all over the crowd, finishing them off. That was appealing in some ways, but she didn’t want to kill all of her potential ogre allies. It was far more important to show Cheron Skerish that she was in charge, show him where she stood on the ladder of power.
“You may not believe me,” she said, ducking out of the way of another swing of the shaman’s warhammer. “But the Queen of Darkness is very much on my side. I can tell your shamanic powers are good enough for this crowd, and the highlord in Kern is going to miss having you around, but I’m not going to put up with insurrection.”
“So far you not show any sign to I that Darklady is with you,” Skerish grunted, taking another superficial cut from Rivven’s blades. “Magic armor save you from Gonnas’ spell. Not save you from Gonnas’ hammer.”
All right, then, Rivven thought. She needed something flashy to prove that she was in Takhisis’s good graces. Stepping back in time to avoid a brutal crash of the hammer, she sheathed the sword, lifted her hands, and called upon her magic once again. As she always did, she felt the hot prickling of power deep within her soul, that rush of energy filling the hollow left behind by her commitment to Takhisis’s path. She never heard the mages of the Towers speak of magic in such a way, as an injury that the use of magic temporarily eased. But they did speak of an almost addictive quality to the art, and there was nothing more addictive than the feeling of relief from such an abiding inner pain.
As the words of her spell seized hold of that well of power and brought it forth, her body became ghostlike and insubstantial, almost vanishing from sight. Before Skerish could react, she stepped forward, forcing her spectral hand through the wall of the ogre shaman’s chest and into his massive heart.
Skerish shuddered and stiffened, his eyes rolling back into his head. The ogres in his retinue watched him collapse backward, landing heavily in the damp earth. Three of them called obscenities in Ogre and charged Rivven, but her spell was still active. They ran right through her, tripping and falling over each other.
“Cease this!” she cried, her voice eerie and chill. “I am the Darklady’s servant! She is displeased with you and Gonnas, her consort! Your shaman is not dead, but he walks the paths of the spirits as we speak. No doubt Gonnas will protect him, but even the god of vengeance cannot deny the will of the Dragon Queen.”
The ogres muttered and growled, and the lieutenant who Rivven had noticed earlier stepped forward. Rivven stood before him, wavering, an ethereal mist coiling from her incorporeal body. She had to admit to herself she looked good. “Are you the second in command?” she asked the lieutenant.
“Yes,” he said. He had some human blood, she noticed, wasn’t as tall as the shaman, and probably had more education. “I am the shaman’s half-brother, Trom.”
“Are you through with opposing me?” she asked him, wondering whether the rotten apple had fallen far from the tree.
“Yes,” he said. “My brother is proud. He is a good leader, and Gonnas favors him, but he forgets that we all serve Darklady, shaman or not.”
Rivven breathed a sigh of relief, masked by her helm. “That shows wisdom,” she said. “Listen, Trom. I’m going to set up my base of operations here for the time being. I’m expecting somebody to come along this way in a day or two, and I plan on being here when he does. Take the shaman and your war band south to Kern, and report to the highlord’s camp. You’ll be told when you can return.”
More than likely, Red Highlord Karelas would refuse to see the ogres and have them sent off to some guard post or another. Karelas was happiest being left alone. Still, Kern was an ogre nation, and Trom and his brother would find welcome somewhere.
Trom bowed then gestured at the prone figure of Cheron Skerish. “How long will he be like that?” he asked.
Rivven shrugged. Her body grew more substantial as she released the spell, returning to normal. “About an hour. Give him a lot of water and make sure he eats enough meat.” She smiled to herself. It was like leaving care instructions for a pet animal with a family member. Leaving Trom to organize the exodus of ogres from Willik, Rivven walked off in search of some home or building suitable for her temporary quarters.
At the end of one street, near the gates to the town, she saw four figures standing in wait for her.
“Ah, there you are,” she said. They looked like ordinary peasants or common folk, but there was something predatory about their eyes. “I’ve just made an arrangement with the shaman. He’s leaving.”
“That is good news, Excellency,” the first peasant said. “You will not be needing our services?”
She shook her head. “No, not at the moment. Proceed on ahead to Castle Glayward. I want you to attend to the wizard Cazuvel there, in case the Ergothian decides not to show up here in Willik.”
“In which form shall we attend the wizard’s needs, Excellency?” asked the man.
Rivven considered. “May as well drop the disguises,” she said. “Cazuvel knows what you look like. If I have any further instructions, I’ll send them along to him.”
“As you wish, Excellency,” said the man. Before Rivven’s eyes, the four peasants began to swell in size, their features distorting, growing more and more metallic and scaled, their clothing melding into their bodies and being replaced by thick plates of armor. When the transformation was complete, four sivak draconians-as large as ogres, and capable of winged flight as well as being able to take on the forms of those they kill-stood before her.
The four sivaks bore the markings and insignia of the infamous Red Watch, indicating they belonged to the elite forces that once served Emperor Ariakas when he was alive. They were a parting gift of his, before the end of the war and his death at the hands of the Whitestone Forces. She hoped those in front of her performed better than the others she’d left watching King Shredler in North Keep.
As the sivaks took wing, Rivven chose an empty building in sight of the main gates as her own. As always, she was being forced to move pieces around on the khas board that was Nordmaar. With the information she had gained from her sources, Rivven felt she’d covered all possible moves on the part of the Ergothian.
All she had to do was wait. That, and get somebody to wash away the stink of ogre.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Vanderjack was soaring above the early-morning jungle.
Technically, he thought, it’s this creature that’s doing all the work. Theo’s new friend, who bore an uncanny resemblance to that totem Gredchen had identified back in Pentar, was a powerful flier. With the wings of a dragon and the strength of a great cat, the dragonne-or so Theo had identified it-could carry the gnome, the sellsword, and the baron’s aide without affecting its ability to fly.
Theodenes had named it Star, but it was not a saber-toothed tiger kitten. Granted, the whole mess with the original Star and the circumstances of Vanderjack’s parting of ways with Theo was half a decade gone, and had Star survived, she could have grown since then. But it was very unlikely that Star could have sprouted wings and acquired the scales of a dragon. And besides, though the dragonne’s jaws were filled with razor-sharp teeth, none of them were as long as knives and permanently hanging out of the creature’s mouth.
For the past few hours, Vanderjack and Gredchen had been slumped on the back of the beast, attempting to recover somewhat from the fight with the girallons as the sun rose in the east. Theodenes regaled them of the importance of ambush detection, the value of his multifunction polearm in today’s economic and military climate, how much the two of them were in his debt, and so forth. Gredchen had been initially grateful and apologetic, but that soon wore off. Vanderjack did the usual and appropriate thing and pretended to be unconscious. Given his broken ribs and numerous bruises, pretending to be unconscious wasn’t difficult.