Obsidian Ridge (8 page)

The old half-elf leveled his gaze at the senator, the stern look of a disciplinarian about to scold a disobedient child. “I know that we are wasting time standing here talking.” He turned back to the king. “We’re in for a fight. And not a quick one. You’d do well to make preparations to defend Llorbauth.” He bowed his head before his king. “My lord, the battle has not yet started, but I do believe we are at war.”

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An entire unit of the king’s army rode out from the palace. Five hundred men strong, they carried the royal flag of Korox Morkann at their head—the twin red wyverns slithering as the fabric was pushed by the wind. Polished to a high shine, their armor reflected bright in the afternoon sun. The war-horses donned the livery of the kingdom of Erlkazar. The riders carried long swords, their hilts tied symbolically shut with peace ribbon.

It was the king’s great hope that they would not need to use their blades—not against this foe, not today, not ever. The peace ribbon had been the compromise he had made to appease Senator Divian. If his army was going to ride out to meet this threat, at least they could arrive with the illusion that they were willing to negotiate. Or so the senator argued.

The shadow of the Obsidian Ridge had grown longer as the day had gone on. And the riders’ armor, reflective and bright, went dark and dull as they rode into its embrace. The captain at the head of the column held up his hand, and the well-disciplined unit of cavalry came, as one, to a stop.

The captain looked up at the floating citadel. If possible,

it was even more imposing up close. The black stone that formed the fortress’s base looked as if it had simply been ripped from the earth. Like a huge hand had reached down from out of the sky, grabbed the ridge, and tore it from its home—leaving a gaping hole in the ground and taking with it most of a mountain range.

Broken stone seemed to drip from the mountain’s surface. Angular boulders tumbled over each other, shattering and re-shattering as they crashed into the sides of the citadel, only to fall off the base into the open air, ultimately burying their sharp edges in the ground below.

The captain swallowed hard. He’d been sent here with a message for whoever or whatever was inside.

“In the name of King Korox Morkann, the capital city of Llorbauth, the Barony of Shalanar, and the Kingdom of Erlkazar, we come to speak with the lord of the Obsidian Ridge!” His words echoed in the chasm between the floating citadel and the city below.

Stones continued to fall from the black mountain, splattering their sharp, jagged bits across the ground like raindrops in a mud puddle. The captain and his men waited, but there was no response.

Clearing his throat, the captain continued. “We have come with the intention of negotiating the peaceful retreat of the Obsidian Ridge from the Kingdom of Erlkazar. We do not wish this meeting to become a hostile conflict, but we are prepared to defend our home with any means necessary.” The captain paused, chewing on his next words. “Even bloodshed.”

No response.

“We respectfully request—”

The captain’s message was cut short by the sound of grinding stone. The heavy doors that hung inside the hand-hewn archways slowly opened. The dripping stones falling from the edge of the fortress came down harder, a light drizzle becoming a rainstorm.

Black shapes poured out of the doors. They rolled down the sides of the citadel, dropping off the base and joining the shower of jagged obsidian. When they landed on the ground, they did not shatter—they unfurled.

Like men, they stood on two legs. But that is where the similarities ended. Their skin resembled the broken bits of obsidian littering the ground—smooth, shiny, and pitch black. Tufts of course black hair covered their bodies in patches. Their heads were long and thin; teeth like those of a wild boar; hands covered in spiky bone and long sharp obsidian claws; eyes, light blue circles against huge pure black pupils; hooves in place of feet; and long thin tails with wicked-looking barbs at their tips.

“May Helm have mercy on my soul,” whispered the captain.

That was all he had time to say. The foul beasts pounced upon the front row of cavalry, sinking their teeth into soldier and mount alike. The sounds of bodies breaking and flesh being torn from bone wafted out into the plain. The screams of dying men and horses echoed under the obsidian citadel.

The cascade of black beasts from the floating mountain grew. The creatures poured down on the heads of the king’s army. The soldiers’ swords broke their peace bonds, but they rarely had time to do much else. The creatures were swift and merciless. They tore into the cavalry with the vigor of hungry dragons. And as quickly as the rain of death started, it ended.

All five hundred men in the unit lay dead, dismembered, or pulverized. Their mounts lay with them, many resembling little more than wrinkled shreds of flesh and mingled piles of intestine, stomach, and broken bone. The field was muddy from the dirt mixing with the puddles of blood.

The beasts let out a cacophony of satisfied wails, then piled atop one another, building a ladder out of their bodies until they could reach the citadel’s base with their razor claws. Climbing over each others’ backs, moving as one,

they scrambled back up into the open archways, leaving their carnage behind.

When the last of them had returned from whence they came, the stone doors swung closed, their heavy grinding signaling the answer of the Lord of the Obsidian Ridge.

The long journey back to Llorbauth from Duhlnarim was finally over. It had been early morning when the Claw left Klarsamryn, but he returned in total darkness.

Though inconveniently timed, the information he’d retrieved from Captain Beetlestone would be of great use in his fight against the Elixir trade. But right now, the king’s assassin was preoccupied with the gigantic floating volcano perched over Llorbauth and the developing plot against the king’s life.

A row of low hedges had been planted just outside the southern edge of the palace. The groundskeeper, in her infinite wisdom, had placed them several strides away from the building, so they had room to grow and mature. After almost ten years, the hedges were still considered young. Though they were not very tall, they were quite full, and the space between them and the palace gave the Claw easy, unobserved access to and from the courtyard where he nightly met the princess.

Tonight was just like most other nights. The outer buildings that surrounded their rendezvous were shut up tight. The spring air was warm, and the new blossoms on the trees filled the courtyard with their sweet fragrance—a romantic place for a late night meeting.

Coming around the corner, the Claw passed the tall

statue of Mariko’s mother, the queen. She was posed with an open book in her hands, looking down at the pages. Every time he came into the courtyard, the Claw couldn’t help but think that she was watching him. He wondered sometimes whether or not she would approve of his rendezvous with the princess.

Slipping past the statue, he entered the courtyard and made his way to their meeting spot near the center. He was quite late, but despite his tardiness, he was the first to arrive. That was unusual but not unheard of. Especially considering the arrival of the black fortress.

Still, something wasn’t right. And after waiting in the courtyard for some time, he started to get concerned. The sun would be coming up soon, and with every passing moment, the chances of meeting the princess were growing smaller.

The Claw’s long day had become even longer. As he slipped out the way he had come, he glanced up at the stone carving of the queen.

“I’ll find her,” he said.

Then he headed down the thinly paved road toward the docks—the stomping grounds of Llorbauth’s underworld.

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The shadows near the Obsidian Ridge seemed unnaturally dark. Even in the dead of night, the looming citadel cast a pall over the homes and lives of everyone in Llorbauth.

Though he was still quite a ways away, traversing the road from the palace to the docks was the closest the Claw had been to the hulking mountain. More than simple blackness, or even the foreboding sense of unease that it gave off, there was power here. Great power. He couldn’t be certain, but he could have sworn he heard a high-pitched humming, as if the entire citadel were vibrating, pushing the air around it.

Moving cautiously through the trees and brush along the side of the road, the king’s assassin froze in his tracks.

He heard voices carrying on the wind. At least two, maybe more. He stopped to listen. They were gruff and deep, and it sounded as if they were just up ahead.

Slipping quietly through the brush, he approached what appeared to be two men. Both on horseback, they sat in their saddles, looking this way and that in the middle of a tight curve on the main road.

“They better get here soon,” said one. “I’m not all that happy about waiting for our Elixir in the shadow of that… thing.”

“Nor am I,” replied the other.

Moving in a little closer, the Claw crouched in the heavy brush only a few steps away. From this part of the road, neither the palace nor the entrance to the docks were visible— the ideal location for an illicit rendezvous.

“Do you hear that?” asked one of the men.

The Claw didn’t move. His heart raced. He’d been preoccupied with the Obsidian Ridge. Had he given himself away?

“I heard nothing,” said the other.

“No, listen,” insisted the first. “Coming from the docks.”

The sound of horses drifted in off the water and mingled with the breeze rustling the leaves. Then a coach came into view. A driver and a guard sat up front, side by side on a single wooden bench. Both jingled with chain mail.

The carriage had two compartments, a traditional one right behind the driver, and another attached to the top for more important passengers. The upper box had curtains across its windows. The Claw recognized the coach. It had been custom made, and there was only one like it in the kingdom.

The man inside was one of the most notorious wizards-for-hire in all of Erlkazar. He had cashed in on the Elixir trade, traveling from town to town, selling bottled potions to the highest bidder. But unlike many of the cheats and swindlers, this man sold the real deal.

His potions were magical all right—dark magic. Those

who swallowed the Elixir would find themselves transported to another time and place. They would have their euphoric trance, but often they never came out of it. Those who did come out became hopelessly addicted, needing to get more and more.

The coach reached the curve in the road and slowed as it reached the two men on horseback. Leaping from his crouch out of the trees the Claw somersaulted onto the dirt road in front of the carriage. Two quick flips of his wrist severed the leather straps holding the horses’ halters to the shafts. Startled by the sudden appearance of a masked, bladed figure, the horses immediately bolted, galloping down the road tethered together but free of their wheeled burden.

“What in the—” shouted one guard.

“We’re under attack!” hollered the other.

No longer attached to the horses, the coach came to a rolling stop. The guard and driver jumped down, pulling their swords with a practiced flair.

“Surrender.” The Claw got to his feet, his bladed gauntlets poised at his sides. “Or I’ll be forced to kill you.”

“I’d give you the same option,” said the coach driver, “but it’s too late for you. Whoever you are, you’ve chosen the wrong coach to rob.”

The doors swung open and two more men, each with a pair of short swords, stepped out. Then the men on horseback rode around the carriage and took up positions behind the Claw, each pointing a loaded crossbow at him as they stopped.

“This is your last warning,” said the king’s assassin. “Drop your weapons and turn over your cargo. It’s your only chance to live.”

The driver chuckled. “You hear him, boys? We got him surrounded and outnumbered six to one, and he’s the one giving us orders.” The other guards didn’t laugh.

The driver lunged, stabbing to his left then striking to his right. The attack forced the Claw back.

The Claw dropped to the ground and somersaulted backward. Curled into a ball, he heard the tell-tale twang of

crossbows discharging, one right after the other. The first bolt thudded harmlessly into the ground in front of the driver, right where the Claw had been standing. The second, however, hit him square in the ribs, knocking the wind from his chest and sending him spinning sideways.

Getting to one knee, the Claw looked down at himself. There was no blood, no bolt sticking out of his skin. His whole left side throbbed in pain, and it hurt to breathe. Scanning the ground, he saw why—they were firing square-tipped bolts—wide, flat heads used to dent and ruin heavy armor, not pierce. These men were prepared to fight a unit of soldiers in plate mail. Instead they were fighting him, and they had just crushed one of his ribs.

They didn’t give him much time to recover. Three men came at him at once, their swords darting from different directions. The Claw barely had time to bash them aside and skitter back. Getting to his feet, he favored his hurt ribs, trying to keep his left arm close to his body.

The driver and the other three swordsmen were closing in. The men on horseback were cranking their crossbows, getting ready for another volley. He suspected they wouldn’t use the same bolts, and next time he wouldn’t be as lucky.

The Claw took one more step back then launched himself into the oncoming guards. The first man slashed at him with his short swords. Catching one between both gauntlets, he twisted, breaking the sword in half. The other blade slipped harmlessly past as the guard lost his balance, tripping and falling to one knee.

The Claw growled at the sharp burning in his own side. It hurt, but the pain faded as he concentrated on the fight in front of him. Turning, he slit the guard’s throat in a single swipe, dropping the man lifeless to the ground.

Two other men came at him, one from each side. Dropping into a crouch, he put all of his weight on his left leg, sweeping his right out. The move caught both men behind their knees. The guards tumbled, landing hard on