Crown of Crystal Flame (10 page)

“You have done well, Grule.” Praising those who served him wasn’t Vadim’s strong suit, but Grule’s last centuries of effort had exceeded even Vadim’s highest expectations. “Not even during the previous Wars did Koderas operate with such seamless efficiency.”

“Thank you, Most High. There is no prize I value more than your approval.” A flush of pleasure touched Grule’s tanned cheeks. Unlike most sun-bereft Mages, who toiled all their lives beneath the surface of Eld, Grule had spent the last year aboveground, overseeing the start of Vadim Maur’s next great achievement.

They had reached the end of the elevated walkway. Grule opened the door at the end of the walkway, and the Mages stepped out of the hot noise of the production floor into a cool, dark corridor. From there, they climbed a flight of stairs that led to a pair of heavy double doors covered with swirling patterns of rune-etched silver and bloodred crystals in the sigils of Seledorn, God of Shadows. Grule reached for the heavy, intricately wrought silver-and
-sel’dor
handle and murmured the words of a release spell while his fingers traced an unlocking weave in the air. Unseen bolts shifted with an audible click.

“After you, Most High,” Grule murmured, and with a wave of his hand, the doors swung open.

Vadim Maur stepped over the threshold and into the gray light of the cloud-filtered afternoon sun. He squeezed his eyes closed against the brightness. It was the first time he’d stepped foot aboveground since the scorching of the world a thousand years ago, and even much-filtered sunlight was a hundred times brighter than the dim, sconce-lit shadows of Boura Fell.

“Forgive me, Master Maur.” Grule leapt forward to block the sunlight with his body and cast the High Mage in his broad shadow. “Shall I weave screens for your eyes?” He lifted his hands in anxious anticipation.

The old Vadim Maur, trapped in his aged and decaying body, would have snapped in rage. But the newly incarnated Vadim Maur, housed in a body both young and fit, was not so quick to anger.

“No need.” Already Vadim’s new, younger eyes were adjusting to the abundance of light. He lifted a shading hand over his eyes and squinted at the world around him.

They were standing on a windswept point of land formed by the confluence of two great rivers: the Frost heading down from the Mandolay Mountains in the north, and the Selas, flowing east from its source near the Rhakis. Vadim turned in a slow circle, drinking in this long-unseen world. Behind them lay the mile-long open
sel’dor
pit that housed the new, much-improved, Koderas. Clouds of thick black smoke boiled up from Koderas’s great fires. What trees might have once surrounded the pit had long since died away, and all that remained was thick brush, covered in heavy gray layers of ash and
sel’dor
dust.

Vadim’s chest swelled with pride. Some who looked upon Koderas might have seen ruin in the ash and soot and poisonous gases choking the life from the surrounding forest. But not Vadim. He saw Koderas for what it truly was:
power.
His power. Raw and brutal and ugly, perhaps, but indisputably great nonetheless.

He turned the final quarter of his circuit and beheld the second reason he had come: the shining glory of Toroc Maur—the first Elden stronghold to extend aboveground since the scorching of the world.

Though little more than a massive outer wall and scaffolding now, when completed the immense citadel would crouch on the banks of the Selas River like a great, horned spider, its gleaming black spires stabbing up from the center of a wide, high-walled and well-defended central keep, towering nearly as high as its foundation, the subterranean levels of Boura Maur, plunged deep. The first soaring
sel’dor
bridge that spanned the river to connect Boura Maur to Koderas had already been built. Flanking the bridge’s entrance, two enormous flags of Eld, rich purple embroidered with silvery moons and stars set in the exact configuration of Vadim Maur’s birth, snapped in the wind.

Emotions coiled inside Vadim: satisfaction, pride, eagerness. Centuries of planning and toil were finally coming to fruition.

“Show me,” he urged.

After touring the existing construction of Toroc Maur and examining in detail the plan for the next stage of construction, Vadim followed Grule up the stone steps to the citadel’s high, well-defended walls where cannoneers had assembled beside the bowcannon mounted on the battlements.

“Ah,” Vadim said. “The new bowcannon bolts. You perfected the spell? “

“I did. I believe you will be very pleased.” Grule nodded to the cannoneers, who immediately began firing the newest weapon—bowcannons bolts spelled by magic to fly faster and higher than ever before—fast and high enough to outpace even a Tairen Soul flying at his top magic-powered speed. The High Mage spent a full quarter bell watching the cannoneers demonstrate the splendid performance of the new bolts.

“Well done, Grule,” he praised when the exhibition concluded. “You may well have just ensured our victory. With the skies tairen-free, nothing can stop my Army of Darkness.”

“You honor me, Most High.” Primage Grule bowed low. “But there is more. I’ve added a new improvement since my last report. The idea came to me after I read a book of Drogan blood spells. The potential is… incalculable.”

Vadim arched a brow. “I am intrigued. What is this new improvement? “

“If you please, Most High, allow me to demonstrate. Do you see that
umagi
running in that field there?” He pointed to a tiny spot on one of the distant grounds and handed Vadim a telescoping spyglass.

Vadim lifted the glass and saw a man in tattered rags running for the forest edge. “You are letting one of your
umagi
escape?”

“One of our less valuable prisoners from the battle at Teleon. I told him if he reached the edge of the forest alive, I would grant him his freedom.” Grule gave smile. “I thought he might run faster with a little incentive. Cannoneer Raegus, prepare to fire.” He nodded at the cannoneer on the far end of the battlement. The man turned the crank to reposition his bowcannon.

“I don’t understand. He is aiming away from the target.”

Grule’s smile grew wider. “Indeed he is, Most High.” He raised his voice and called, “Fire when ready, cannoneer.”

“Ta, Master Grule.” The cannoneer uncorked a small flagon, poured a stream of glowing red liquid on the tip of the mounted cannon bolt, then returned to the firing pad and pulled back the release lever. The thick, braided metal bowstring gave a sharp twang of sound, and the bolt shot into the air. The launch ignited the acceleration spell, and the bolt rapidly picked up speed, just as all the other new bolts had done.

What happened next, however, made Vadim Maur’s jaw drop.

The flying bolt, launched in the opposite direction of the escaping
umagi,
took a swift and sudden turn in the air and sped unerringly towards the running man. Moments later, the small dark speck racing towards the forest edge went down.

“I don’t believe it.” Vadim Maur raised his spyglass to an eye. Sure enough, the bolt had struck its target, cutting the fleeing man in two and pinning the upper half of his body to the ground. He spun to Grule. “How?”

“I used a variation of a Drogan summoning spell to direct the cannon bolt, and used that
umagi’s
blood as the base for the spell. Once the cannoneer applied the potion, the bolt was magically drawn to the donor of the blood.”

“You mean…”

“Yes.” Grule was smiling again. He knew he’d done well. “Give me the Tairen Soul’s blood, Most High, and I will shoot him from the sky.”

“Do that, Grule, and I’ll give you your pick of jewels from my own sash. And your choice of seats on the Mage Council.”

Vadim clasped the Mage’s hand in a celebratory handshake. “Well done, Grule. Well done, indeed.”

“Thank you, Master Maur. Your praise means everything to me. And now, I’m sure you’re anxious to see the real treasure of Boura Maur.”

Vadim and Grule took the wide, winding stair that circled down from Toroc Maur into the heart of its Boura below. Descending to levels known only to a select few, and accessible to even fewer, Grule opened the door and ushered the High Mage into the secret rooms that held the real purpose for his visit.

There, in a vast, low-ceilinged hall where the temperature dropped close to freezing, a raised earthen walkway led across what appeared to be an endless sea of mist. Brass ember-pots hanging from the ceilings illuminated the mists with a sickly red-orange glow. As Vadim and Grule stepped out onto the walkway, Grule wove a spell that sent sparks of magic flying across the chamber. Ember-pots brightened, and the mist thinned to reveal a vast series of open pits where masses of grayish white bodies crowded together like maggots packed in a rotting wound.

A dull murmur rose up from the undulating mass, senseless and wordless. A low, rattling moan, like an asthmatic breath dragged through throats choking on phlegm. The disturbing sound would instinctively raise hairs on the necks of the unsuspecting… and strike terror in the hearts of those who recognized its portent.

Revenants. Man-shaped creatures spawned from scraps of human flesh and bone, grown like witch-weed in a soupy morass of soil,
magus
powder, and the putrefying offal of both man and beast. Not entirely living, not entirely dead, but rather soulless hulks with a rapacious hunger for live flesh. And despite their current moribund state, when loosed from their pack, they moved with the speed of striking serpents—and the carnivorous ferocity of a
lyrant
taking down its prey.

They were the perfect weapon. Animated by the darkest of Dark magic, the creatures were all but indestructible. They had no hearts to pierce, no lungs to rob of breath, no veins to drain of blood. Instead, like great, gruesome sponges, they thrived by absorbing the blood and dissolved flesh of their victims. Both their outer skin and the lining of the long digestive tube that coiled from maw to waste duct exuded a corrosive enzyme that liquefied flesh and bone on contact, then soaked up the resulting nutrient-rich goo and shuttled it inward to the rest of the creatures’ ever-hungry bodies. On a battlefield, where revenants could gorge and wade through swamps of slain men, even dismemberment only served to multiply their numbers, for a revenant limb separated from its host needed only a soaking of fresh blood to grow again.

Their only thoughts—encoded into every cell of their ravening beings—were to feed and kill… and to serve the Elden Mages who held their leashes.

“How many have you grown now?” Vadim asked.

“Three million two hundred thousand, Most High,” Grule answered. “Stored cold, kept hungry. When you unleash them, nothing living will long stand in their path.”

Three million two hundred thousand. A force like none this world had ever seen, exceeding even the wildest accounts of the mythic Army of Darkness.

“Excellent.” The Celierian king had gathered his allies at Kreppes. Vadim’s eyes along the border had provided daily reports of their preparations for war, but their efforts would be for naught. Celieria would belong to Eld before the new moons rose on the thirteenth night of Seledos—and after that, the Fading Lands. “You have done well, Grule. You are a Mage worthy of his jewels.” He cast a final, gleaming gaze over the revenant pits. “Prepare them for transport.”

Celieria ~ Kreppes
30
^th
day of Verados

A knock sounded on Rain and Ellysetta’s suite door. When Gil went to answer it, no one was more surprised than Ellysetta to find Great Lord Dervas Sebourne on the other side. The warriors of her quintet went instantly stone-faced, as did Rain, when Gil ushered the Celierian Great Lord inside the room.

“Lord Sebourne,” Rain greeted with wary stiffness.

“Feyreisen.” Sebourne’s voice was equally crisp. “I’ll be brief. The king may have decided to overlook your lies and manipulations, but I have not. So do not think my return signals anything to the contrary. For now, I have no choice but to set aside my personal feelings and accept you as a member of this alliance, but when this war is over, I intend to lead the Council of Lords to eliminate Fey interference in all walks of Celierian life. And be warned, war or no war, if I discover you or any of your Fey are using magic to influence or invade mortal minds, I will be the first to call for your execution. Have a pleasant evening.”

He gave a curt nod and stalked out.

Ellysetta gaped after him. She turned to Rain, shaking her head. “Did he really just come in here and
threaten
you?”

“It seems that he did,
shei’tani.”
Rain’s hands dropped to the hilts of the
meicha
scimitars at his hips, and his eyes narrowed on the closed door Great Lord Sebourne had just exited.

In the hallway, Dervas Sebourne dropped a small white stone into the brass wall sconce beside the Feyreisen’s suite door before walking briskly back to his own rooms.

Ellysetta was still marveling over Lord Sebourne’s inexplicable visit when a loud sound, like the rolling of thunder in the distance, broke the night’s silence. She forgot Sebourne’s aggressive intrusion in an instant. A bright smile broke across her face.

“They’re here!” she cried. “They’ve come! The pride has come!”

Rain was already heading for the door. Together, with Ellysetta’s primary quintet ringed around them, they raced out of the fortress and through the outer gate to greet the approaching tairen.

“Steli! I’ve missed you so!”

The great, snow-white tairen lowered her head and purred contentedly, blue eyes whirling sky-bright, as Ellysetta flung herself against Steli’s neck and stroked the thick, soft fur.

Two other tairen, Xisanna and Perahl, had flown with her from Orest. Rijonn, the Earth master of Ellysetta’s quintet, had fashioned a lair for them in the side of one of the newly heightened hills near Kreppes. Small by tairen standards, the lair was nearly as large as all of Kreppes. Rain, Ellysetta, and the tairen fit inside with enough room to move freely about.

«Steli missed Ellysetta-kitling, too. Human city not so fun without you. Too much prey-scent, but Fey-kin says not to eat. Makes Steli…»
An image of a snarling, slavering tairen filled Ellysetta’s head.