Obsidian Ridge (9 page)

their backs, spread eagle on the ground.

Slashing just below the cuff of their chain mail tunics, he gutted them both, spilling their innards—leaving them alive but helpless as he moved on to the next guard.

Darting underneath the first horse, the Claw slit the strap, and the saddle slipped off sideways. The rider grabbed at the reins, pulling to hold himself up, but it was no use. His feet tangled in the stirrups, and the man fell from his mount. The bolt he had been loading into his crossbow dropped from his hands, landing harmlessly on the dirt road.

The horse, unnerved at losing its rider, pranced and whinnied. The rider still held the reins, yanking the poor beast’s face to the left. Skittering sideways, the mount stepped down on top of its fallen rider—right on his head, smashing it like a pumpkin.

The Claw rolled away, out from underneath the frantic horse. Getting to his feet, he watched as it reared back then took off at a run, dragging the limp body of its tangled rider with it down the road.

The other rider, fumbling with his crossbow, gave up on the endeavor, tossing it away and pulling his sword. He kicked his heels in and galloped toward the Claw at full speed. Twisting away from the attack, the Claw leaped into the air. Grabbing hold of the rider’s shoulder, he pulled himself up onto the back of the horse. The blades of his gauntlet bit deep into the man’s flesh, and the guard curled into a ball, dropping his sword and falling sideways off the horse.

Grabbing hold of the reins, the Claw climbed into the saddle and turned the mount around to face the carriage. A pair of eyes peered out of the upper compartment for a flash, then the curtains over the window were jerked shut. Of the guards, only the driver remained standing. He held his blade out before him, but it shook in his grip as he surveyed the carnage on the ground.

The Claw eased the horse forward, and the driver raised his hands in the air.

“I surrender.”

“Drop your sword,” said the Claw.

The driver nodded nervously and did as he was told.

“Now leave,” said the Claw.

“L-leave?”

“Go back to the docks.” The Claw rode up beside the driver, looking down at him through the dark holes in his mask. “And tell everyone there about what happened to you today. You tell them that the Elixir trade is finished in Erlkazar.”

“Uh… uh, y-yes,” stammered the driver. “Certainly. As you command.”

“Go now. Before I change my mind.”

The man turned and ran back toward the water and the seedy side of Llorbauth.

The Claw climbed off the horse and approached the carriage. The doors on the flying coach were still closed, and the curtains were pulled tight against the windows.

“In the name of the King Korox Morkann, I command you to exit the carriage.”

Nothing moved.

The Claw cleared his throat. “You are to be taken to Llorbauth, where you will be tried for trafficking in black magic.”

Still nothing.

“You saw what happened to your guards when they resisted. This is your last warning. Come out and surrender, or I will take you by force.”

The latch clicked, but the door stayed shut for a long moment. Then, slowly, it creaked as it opened. It was dark inside with the curtains pulled tight, and though the door was open, the passenger didn’t immediately appear.

The Claw was struck cold by a terrible thought. “Invisible,” he muttered.

Leaping up onto the edge of the carriage, he reached his arm inside the coach, swiping around blindly. Nothing. Nothing.

Then his blades caught, and an earsplitting screech filled the car.

“Damn, damn, damn!” shouted a voice. “I’m cut! I’m bleeding!”

Then the air crackled, and the hair on the back of the Claw’s neck stood on end. A bolt of blue-white energy shot out of the coach. The Claw barely had time to throw himself backward as the magical lightning whizzed past him and impacted the road. Rocks and dirt flew everywhere, covering the bodies of the fallen guards.

The Claw landed flat on his back, the front of his cloak singed. Jumping to his feet, he closed on the carriage, not stopping to brush the dirt from his chest. A hand shot out of the open door, pointing a wand at him with its shaky fist.

Not waiting for another blast, the Claw swung down with his right gauntlet, catching the wizard’s hand under its razor-sharp blades and raking four deep gashes along his forearm. The man squealed like a stuck pig and dropped his wand as he clutched his bleeding arm.

Grabbing the wizard by the collar of his robe, the Claw dragged him out of the passenger compartment and dumped him onto the ground in front of the carriage.

The man was thin and rather sickly looking—not exactly as the Claw had imagined him. He wore fine, red velvet robes and sported a well-waxed moustache on the front of his narrow face. Lying on the ground, he pressed his robes against the pumping wounds, moaning.

“Please,” he said, sobbing and rocking side to side. “I’ve done nothing. You have the wrong man.”

The doors to the lower compartment were still wide open. The inside was full, stacked to the ceiling with sealed crates. Smashing his fist through the wooden top of the first crate, the Claw pulled out a flask of the brownish Elixir.

“So,” he said, holding up the proof. “You’re not involved in the Elixir trade?”

“That’s not what it looks like.” The wizard held up his one

good hand. “They’re just… just healing potions.”

The Claw popped open the cork on the flask. “Really? Healing potions?” He looked down at the gushing wounds on the man’s right arm. “Looks like you need one now.”

Grabbing the wizard by the back of the head, he forced the open bottle into his mouth. “Drink.”

The scrawny man struggled against the bigger man’s grasp, twisting, spitting, and gasping for air. The Claw gripped a handful of hair and tilted his head back, forcing the flask deeper into his mouth. The thick brownish liquid spilled out the sides of his mouth and drizzled down his cheeks. But despite his attempts to keep it out, the wizard eventually swallowed several large gulps.

The Claw tossed away the empty bottle and shoved the peddler back onto the ground. Scrambling backward away from his attacker, the wizard gagged and coughed, gasping for air.

“Are you—” The wizard convulsed and vomited all over himself—”crazy? You almost killed… almost…” His head began to loll back and forth on his shoulders. His eyes grew dim, closing part way. “Almost… almost killed… killed… me.” Slipping backward on the viscous liquid, the wizard tried to hold himself up. He tried to stand, but only got part way to sitting, a confused look on his face.

The Claw lifted the wizard by the front of his robes. Placing his hand on the scrawny man’s forehead, he pried his eyelid up with his thumb. The wizard’s pupils were completely black, fully dilated, and his eyes were darting back and forth.

The Claw looked down the road, where the trees blocked the view to the docks beyond. The princess could take care of herself. Right now, duty called.

Lifting the wizard off of his feet, the Claw flopped the man’s incapacitated body over the saddle on one of the horses. He ripped a strip of the man’s robe off and tied a bandage around his arm. He pulled a tinderbox from under his cape, lit a piece of parchment, and tossed it inside the open door of the carriage. The dry wood of the Elixir crates ignited, and soon the flames reached out to wrap the rest of the carriage in their embrace.

The Claw grabbed hold of the reins and lifted himself onto the horse. Adjusting the limp body of the wizard on the saddle behind him, he took one look back. “Healing potions, huh?”

The coach erupted in flame as the Elixir caught fire.

++++

A complete slaughter. Not a single man or horse returned alive. The horror of the situation lay heavy on the shoulders of King Korox. He’d been pacing the length of his audience chamber for some time, receiving reports from his scouts and weighing his battle options. He sat now in his throne, his heart darkened. Evacuation, it seemed, was a very real option.

The sun was rising, and he had not yet been to bed. His head was full of thoughts—of the men who had been lost; of Five Spears Hold, the closest, safest location to send refugees if and when he gave the evacuation order; and of the newest threat posed to his kingdom, the hulking, blackened citadel that blotted out the daylight and cast fear upon the hearts of every citizen in Llorbauth.

“You cannot blame yourself for what happened.”

Korox looked up to see Senator Divian standing at the entrance of the audience chamber.

“Can’t I?”

The senator smiled. “Well, you are the king, so I suppose that means you can do whatever you please.”

He smiled back, weakly. “That’s what I’m told.”

The senator sat down on the steps of the dais, at the foot of the king’s throne. “It wasn’t you who killed those men. You were only trying to protect the people of this kingdom.”

“Tell that to those soldiers.”

“Oh, come now,” the senator scolded. “You know better than most that the life of a soldier is a perilous one at best. Those men knew what they were getting into. They were men of honor, men of duty, and they proudly served Korox Morkann, the Warrior King.”

“You make me sound so glorious for having sent an entire unit of men to their deaths.”

Senator Divian placed her hand on his leg. “It was not your actions that struck those men dead. And that may not be the only hard decision you have to make in the coming days.”

The king scratched his head. “But you were against the decision to send men out there in the first place.”

The senator shook her head. “That’s not true. At the time, we did not know what we were dealing with or what that thing wanted.”

“We still don’t,” reminded the king.

“No,” she conceded, “but I think there is little doubt that whatever it wants, it means to do us some harm if it doesn’t get it. And for what it’s worth, I think you did the right thing—for Erlkazar.”

The king took in a deep breath and nodded. He sat in silence, the senator at his side, mulling over the choices he’d made and would have to make.

Whitman’s voice broke his quiet contemplation.

“My lord!” The scribe’s boots made a loud clopping sound across the marble floor. “My lord, there appears to be a message for you outside the palace gates.”

“A message? From whom?”

Whitman stopped in front of the throne. “From… from that thing—the ruler of the Obsidian Ridge.”

The king leaped to his feet. “Why was it not brought to me?

“Uh…” Whitman fumbled for a moment. “My lord, it’s… it’s—”

“It’s what, Whitman? I don’t have time for your mumbling. Spit it out.”

“The message is inscribed on a giant slab of stone. It cannot be moved.”

The king looked at the senator, questioning her with his eyes. She shrugged, just as confused as he.

“You say it’s at the palace gates.” The king made a move for the door, his bodyguard Quinn right behind him, Senator Divian a close second.

Whitman followed. “Yes, my lord.”

Down the steps into the great hall, the king collected followers like rats to a piper. They fell into step behind, wondering, he assumed, what the message from the Obsidian Ridge would bring to light.

Outside of the keep, a crowd of servants and court functionaries were already gathered. Though the drawbridge was down, and the heavy wooden doors were open, the portcullis that protected the gateway was shut—a sign that not all was well in Erlkazar.

“Step aside!” shouted Whitman. “Make way for King Korox!”

The crowd, previously too preoccupied with the sight before them, now turned and parted. They bowed their heads, many dropping to one knee before the king.

Korox looked at each one of them as he passed, nodding his acknowledgment. He knew these people, some better than others, but he knew them. He had grown up with many of them, and had seen them have many emotions. He had watched them celebrate the new harvest, cry over the death of close friends, rejoice at the birth of a new child. But as he looked upon them now, he saw something new—he saw fear. He knew how they felt. And though it was comforting to know that he was not the only one afraid of the floating black citadel, he also knew that these people were looking to him to bring them safely through this time of uncertainty.

Reaching the portcullis, Korox gazed out between its rough iron bars at a huge black obelisk. Carved completely out of obsidian, the enormous stone stood three times the height of a man, and it rested now just on the other side of the drawbridge. Words, written in Common, were inscribed on its surface, but from where he stood, the king couldn’t make out what they said.

Korox turned to the nearest palace guard. “How did this get here?”

The guard fumbled for the words. “It just… just… did, my lord.”

“What do you mean, ‘it just did?’ It’s a huge stone obelisk. Did it drop from the sky?”

The guard shook his head. “No, my lord. One moment, it wasn’t there. Then as the sun rose over Shalane Lake, it… it just was.”

“And you saw no one? No creatures, no soldiers, no wizards, no one appeared with it?”

“No, my king,” replied the guard. “Only the obelisk.”

The king nodded. “Well then, raise the portcullis,” he ordered. “I want to get a better look.”

The order echoed over the heads of the people, shouted from one guard to the next, until it was answered by the grinding of heavy chain. The huge metal gate that protected the entrance of the palace complained as it was lifted into the air. With each crank of the wooden gear, the portcullis drew higher, the pointed ends looking like the jaw of a gigantic beast, ready to chomp down on any who drew near.

The king didn’t wait for it to reach its full height. Ducking under the partially open gate, he made his way down the drawbridge, into the early morning. The senator, Quinn, and Whitman all followed. Captain Kaden rushed to catch up, fastening the last few buckles of his plate mail as he shouldered his way through the crowd, joining the others as they left the palace.

As they drew closer, King Korox began to recognize the words inscribed on its surface. The chiseled letters only became legible when the light hit them at just the right angle, reflecting off the inner surface of the carving and casting the words in contrast to the darker stone. Drawing up to the edge of the obelisk, the king sidestepped, tilting his head to get the sun’s early rays into the right position.