The Swordmage Trilogy Bundle, Volumes 1-3 (35 page)

One of the warriors snarled with frustration. He was young, just out of adolescence, with pale yellow fur striped with brown. One of these stripes ran across his eyes, giving him the appearance of wearing a mask and earning him a nickname among his peers. Xenir wasn't even sure what his given name was. He had simply been called Bandit for as long as the Warleader could remember. Several of the other warriors growled in support and Xenir brought them all up short with a savage snarl. One by one they turned to face him, their eyes lowered in their submission.

“Are we vermin?” Xenir asked them. “To be blocked by thick doors and barred windows?”

“No Warleader!” Their voice was one voice of many parts, and their burning eyes met his at the challenge to their honor. The merest implication that they might be vermin had driven the frustration from them and replaced it with the burning desire to conquer.

They'd need that desire, Xenir knew. The humans might be the inferior of the two species, but they had an uncanny knack for causing trouble. They had been a thorn in the side of the Xarundi since the days when the two races had first collided. They had been clashing with each other ever since. The vermin would never forget their subjugation to the claws and fangs of the Xarundi and the Chosen would never forget how the humans had driven them out of the light into the perpetual twilight of the Warrens. Peace simply wasn't an option.

The wind brought a sound to his erect ears, and the Warleader motioned them all to the ground. They crouched in the cover of the trees, eyes and ears alert as the prison door swung inward. Two soldiers in heavy plate armor emerged, each with a towering shield on one arm and a long, heavy spear in the opposite hand. They took up positions outside the door, spears and shields at the ready. Another, smaller man in plate emerged from the pale light beyond the door, his eyes scanning the hills. For a moment, Xenir felt the weight of the man's eyes upon them. He held his breath.

Xenir had received no premonition about their mission. No vision had visited him giving a clue to the success or failure of their endeavor. He knew that a seer's power came and went as it pleased, occasionally favoring the seer at the moment of greatest need. Other times it was cold and silent as an angry lover. Whatever he had done to fall out of favor with the power that imbued him with insight into the Quintessential Sphere also prevented him from guessing how their current endeavor would end. So he watched, and waited, though he could feel the younger warriors quivering with anticipation.

The third man made a final survey of the darkened landscape and turned to the door. He waved his hand and said something far too distant for Xenir or the others to hear. Another figure, this one enrobed in thick cream colored folds of cloth, stepped through the door and stood talking to the short man. They exchanged words, then the robed figure started off down the small, winding trail that lead away from the prison door. As he walked, a glowing orb blossomed over him, casting a wide circle of light that surrounded him.

The heavy thud of the door drew his attention back to the building, and he saw that the soldiers had retreated there, sealing off the entrance. Trying to get through that door would be futile. By the time they worked their claws through the wood, the wicked spears would have been thrust through the window bars and into their flesh. They'd have to find another way into the building.

“Pursue the mage, Warleader.”

To Xenir's surprise, it wasn't one of the warriors who had given the impudent order. It was the tiny grizzled cleric who leaned heavily on his staff. The cleric had doggedly followed them on the trek through the swamp, though his infirmity and age prevented him from keeping the grueling pace the youngsters set. He had often fallen behind, sometimes disappearing entirely from view, during their trek here. Still, he had somehow managed to catch up with them again.

“Quickly, Warleader.” The cleric motioned beyond, to the bend in the trail where it turned and disappeared from view. “I have a plan, but we must be swift.”

“Very well, cleric,” Xenir said, deciding to humor the old-timer. “What would you have us do?”

The cleric gave orders in a series of low, short growls. Bandit and another of the young Chosen were sent to intercept the quintessentialist on the path. They were told to take him by surprise, to keep him quiet, and most importantly, bring him back alive. The cleric had stressed that last point so strenuously that Xenir had to assure him that the younger Xarundi would obey his orders as they would have obeyed the Warleader's. The pair of hunters slipped off into the darkness and the rest of the party waited.

Xenir began to worry as the silvery disk of the moon climbed ever higher in its arc across the night sky. Though he had stressed the need for stealth, he doubted that even the younger Chosen would need so much time to bring down a single human, even if that human were a quintessentialist. He made up his mind to move to a different vantage point if they didn't return before dawn, just to ensure that the mage didn't discover them if he managed to defeat Bandit and come looking for others.

As it happened, Xenir's worry was unfounded. Shortly after he had decided to move the war party to a different location, there was a rustle in the underbrush. The sound and movement was no more than a rabbit would make, but the Chosen warriors appeared in the thicket, the mage, bound and unconscious, carried between them. They cut his bonds and laid the quintessentialist on the ground before the cleric, calling a rather obnoxious amount of attention to the fact that no tear or even a single drop of blood marred the purity of the billowing robes.

“Stand him up,” the cleric commanded.

The warriors shot a look at the Warleader, who nodded. If the cleric had a plan that would get them into the prison, he was a step ahead of the rest of the group. Xenir was a good enough leader to know when listening to subordinates was the best course of action. Besides, he was curious as to how all this was going to play out. The cleric was old, nearly ancient, but it was obvious that he was still in full command of his intellect.

Once the mage was upright, the cleric laid his staff on the ground and began circling the clearing, tracing arcane symbols onto trees with a single outstretched claw. The sigils pulsed with a flickering, blue-green light. They seemed to grow brighter and livelier as the cleric made each subsequent symbol. As the cleric made the sixth and final sign, the marked trees bowed inward, blocking out the light of the moon and plunging the Xarundi into velvety darkness.

Thick vines snaked down out of the trees and across the ground, twining themselves around the quintessentialist's wrists and ankles. Bandit and the other warrior stepped away, as their support was no longer required. A low moan escaped from between the man's lips. Though it was pitch black in the clearing, Xenir could see the man's face plainly. The myriad shades of grey that made up the Xarundi's night vision produced vivid detail even when there was no natural light.

The man's eyelids fluttered. Whatever the cleric was planning, he needed to complete it quickly. If he didn't they'd have a panicky quintessentialist in their midst and that would do none of them any good. The cleric seemed to grasp that reality, however, as he continued to intone the words of command to whatever ritual he had in mind. Stepping up behind the mage, he extruded a sharp fore claw and pressed it into the skin at the base of the mage’s skull. The flesh dimpled and a small bead of blood welled up around the puncture.

A moment later, the claw slammed forward with a speed that belied the cleric's age. The mage gave a single spasmodic leap and then sagged limply against the restraints. The body seemed to lift off the ground as the cleric withdrew his claw, bringing with it a sinewy blue-white mist. The cleric pulled the strand out of the body, separating the last of it with a little tug that made the empty body give a little jump. With a drop of his jaw that equated to a Xarundi's smile, the cleric displayed the shifting mist to the Warleader.

“What is it?” The Warleader reached out to touch the mist, but the cleric shook his head in warning.

“You don't want to touch this, Warleader. It's the vermin's soul. Don't sully yourself.”

Xenir was both impressed and sickened. That the cleric could so nonchalantly hold the very essence of a vermin turned his stomach. The cleric spread his hands apart, spreading the mist thin between them. He spoke a single word and the blue-white light left the strands. As the light vanished, the soul disintegrated.

“How frail they are,” the cleric said, still grinning. “Frail even in spirit.”

Before the Warleader could respond, the cleric stepped up to the mage's body and grasped the neck, his thumbs holding the wound his claw had made open by the edges. Another guttural command and there was a flash of green light that dazzled all the Chosen. They threw their hands up in front of their eyes at the brilliance of the flash. As the Warleader drew breath to scold the cleric for giving away their position, he saw that the vines were gone. The trees had returned to their natural state and both the body of the mage and the cleric lay crumpled next to each other.

Xenir rushed to the cleric's side, but he was still. His eyes were open and dull. The blue fire that danced in the eyes of every Chosen had gone out. The cleric had failed. The rest of the warriors gathered around, looking down on their fallen comrade with a mixture of pity and disgust. The Warleader passed his heavy hand over the cleric's eyes, closing them for the final time. He rocked back on his haunches, trying to decide what to do next.

When the body of the human stirred, Xenir was so startled that he retreated to the loose circle of warriors ranged around him. As they prepared to spring, Xenir got a strange feeling in the back of his head and held up a hand, stopping them in their tracks. The quintessentialist turned to face them. His eyes blazed blue for a moment, and then faded to the dull, lifeless color typical of all human eyes. Xenir was aghast.

“Cleric?”

“Warleader.”

The voice that came from the quintessentialist's body was plainly human, but there was something underneath that the Xarundi's hearing could just barely detect. It was definitely the cleric's essence in the human's body. The Warleader felt sick.

“I don't understand,” Xenir said slowly. “Why?”

“The vermin will gladly open their doors to one of their own, Warleader. What better disguise than their own skin?”

“But you...”

“I am old, Warleader. My time has come and gone. Once my task is complete, you will release me. Give me a warrior's death. An honorable death. Regardless of this fragile, disgusting form.”

“You are a hero and a patriot, cleric. I will grant your death by my own hand.”

The cleric bowed his human head. “My thanks, Warleader.”

Xenir turned to the others.

“Witness the sacrifice of one of our brothers, who offers his life in trade for another of our own.”

The warriors accorded the old cleric with a ragged howl, the sound echoing through the trees. After a moment it died away and the woods were silent.

“Watch closely, my brothers. Our time is at hand,” the cleric said, flipping the cowl of the robes over his head.

The sun was just beginning to lighten the eastern sky as the mock quintessentialist made his way down the hill and across the rolling valley. The warriors followed, keeping to the shadows of trees and gentle rises, staying out of sight of the prison door. The cleric approached the door, knocking loudly. A moment later, the peep door popped open and someone looked out from inside the prison.

“Master!” A surprised voice said from the other side of the door. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, of course,” the cleric replied earnestly. “I merely forgot to leave something with you when I departed. May I enter?”

“Certainly! A moment please.”

The peep door closed and the prison door swung inward on silent hinges. The cleric-mage stepped into the doorway, blocking sight from inside the prison. Xenir motioned to the warriors and they rushed forward. As he reached the door, his claws flashed out, parting the cleric's head from the borrowed body. The Chosen spilled through the open doorway, falling on the startled soldiers in a swarm. The plate armor offered little protection as sharp claws found the seams and pulled them apart, limb from limb.

In less than two minutes, the three soldiers that stood watch over the prison were dead and the floor of the watch room was slick with blood. Xenir crouched over the watch commander and plucked the ring of keys from his belt. As a unit, the Chosen moved toward the door at the back of the watch room. Finding the appropriate key, the Warleader opened the door and they descended into darkness.

A long stone corridor was lined with cells on either side. A few flickering lamps cast feeble circles of light on the corridor floor. Most of the cells were empty. Xenir checked each one, looking for the hulk of the High Priest. His despair grew with each cell they checked. Perhaps the dragon was wrong. Perhaps Zarfensis really had perished and his incarceration here was just a sick ruse by the vermin.

As they reached the last cell on the left hand side of the corridor, all Xenir's doubts evaporated. Crouched on the stone floor was the emaciated frame of the High Priest. Only the slight rise and fall of Zarfensis's breathing gave the Warleader any indication that he was still alive. Xenir was horrified that the High Priest, once a hulking brute, had been reduced to the creature he saw before him. Even so, it could be no other. The twisted brass and blackened rubber of the artificial leg could belong to no one else.