The Wizard and the Warlord (The Wardstone Trilogy Book Three) (39 page)

“As you command, Majesty,” De’Rain said. Then, as Mikahl was leaving, the mage added, “Congratulations.”

Bzorch was getting hungry. The huge flock of dactyls that had roosted on the side of the Dragon’s Tooth Spire made it almost impossible for him to leave his place up in the wormhole. He tried to climb back down in daylight but they tried to give him away. If he stayed where he was, he would starve to death. Already, he was contemplating using his dragon gun to kill one of the pesky swamp birds for food. He was so hungry he would risk setting the flock off to get one. He was just waiting for the sun to sink below the western horizon to do it.

The eastern side of the fang was bathed in evening shadow and would be perfect for him to get a clear shot at a dactyl, but the shape of the tooth made it almost impossible. The wormhole on that side opened up on thin air. The face of the rock below the opening scalloped inward in an inverted curve. His hunt, as well as any attempt to descend, would have to be carried out on the western face.

Bzorch decided to try to feed in the night, then climb down in the early morning shadows. The last two mornings, the dactyls had woken at dawn with a cacophony of shrieks and screeches. He hoped to be able to hurry down amid the noise. He didn’t feel hopeful, though. Even if he defied the flock of dactyls, he had hundreds of miles of snapper-filled marshes to traverse. Even if he could find and salvage one of the safety boats from the barges, he would have little chance of making it to Westland to warn the High King. Bzorch was determined, though. He was a survivor. He didn’t understand the concept of giving up, and he didn’t acknowledge fear. He was half beast, and that primal side of him was starting to take over.

He’d been observing the Zard encampment below and knew that the Choska’s lair was somewhere at the southern base of the island. Every bit of movement indicated that much. Whether it was the Choska or the Dragon Queen running things, he couldn’t say. He was half determined to take matters into his own hands and try to kill them all before they started moving toward Westland. He figured that it was too soon to think about that. He still had to climb down without getting shredded by the dactyls.

As the sun finally crept down from the sky, Bzorch took up a position lying with his upper torso hanging out of the wormhole. He carefully placed the coil of line at the edge so that it would unravel easily. He tied the loose end securely around a chunk of broken rock. He lay as still as he could manage and held the dragon gun aimed and ready to fire. The nearest nest he could see was too far down to shoot at accurately. So he lay there for a long while hoping that one of the restless creatures would fly within his range. None did.

He pulled himself back into the wormhole, brimming with frustrated anger and feeling the fatigue of not eating for several days. With a growl of determination he gathered up a pile of fist-sized pieces of rock, placed them near the edge of the wormhole and resumed his position. He held the dragon gun loosely with one hand and with the other threw one of the rocks down into the nearest flock. Just as he hoped, the dactyl roosting there leapt from the cliff face into panicked flight. Three of them flapped out away from the rock, squawking in distress, then after circling around a moment, they returned to their nest. None of them flew close enough for Bzorch to loose a shaft at, but it gave him hope. After all, he had quite a few rocks to throw, and sooner or later one of the agitated dactyls would make the mistake of getting too close.

After he threw the third rock, several of the creatures went fluttering away. They all came extremely close and Bzorch took a chance. His arms had grown tired and he missed, but the prospect of a well-needed meal, and the rush of nearly having one on the end of his line, kept him from giving up. Finally, about halfway through his second pile of rocks, when the moon was high overhead and bathing the fang in an eerie yellow light, Bzorch shafted one of them. Like hauling down a kite in a gale, he pulled the loud, screaming swamp bird into the wormhole. Once the flopping, flapping creature was inside, Bzorch got hold of its neck and snapped it. During the struggle the dactyl managed to slice Bzorch’s chest open with its razor-sharp beak. At that moment the breed giant didn’t care. Using his bare hands, he ripped open the reptilian bird’s leathery hide and devoured its bloody flesh. When his hunger was sated, he recoiled his rope, and rewound the dragon gun. After that, he leaned back against the rocky wall and waited for the moon to get low so that he could start his climb down through the dactyl roosts.

When the time came, it was as black as pitch outside. The sun would reach the horizon in the east soon and set the dactyls off on their morning tirade of noise. Bzorch hoped to be well among them when it started.

He put the coil of line over one shoulder, instead of across his body, and he used a bit of the line to sling the dragon gun over the other. The wound on his chest had stopped bleeding, but he knew the freshness of it would attract predators once he was in the water. Since there was land at the southern base of the fang, he decided to ease that way as he descended. He still hadn’t decided whether he would try to kill the Choska or not. He remembered vowing to pike its head at the gates of O’Dakahn where it had killed all of those people. He didn’t want to break his word, but the short-haired Dragon Queen down there was probably a greater issue. Since he had a wound that would make him little more than bait in the marshes, he was weighing the matter in his head as he started down the rock face in the dark.

He climbed to his right as much as possible while moving down the rock face. As he went, he considered his chances of surviving the swamp. He wasn’t afraid of pain or death, only of failing his people and his king. What would King Mikahl do when Bzorch told him about the Choska and its rider? Probably send another party into the marshes to hunt them down. The way his men had been devoured by the denizens of this fiend-infested swamp was something he would never forget. In a matter of moments, the entire party of three hundred men had been eliminated. Even the barges were gone, either resting at the bottom of the swamp, or being overgrown by the thick vegetation. The next group would meet the same sort of fate. The Choska, or the woman who so eerily resembled that bitch Shaella, had retaken control of the life out here.

A thunder of wings, accompanied by a horrendous screech, startled Bzorch out of his reverie. He had descended into the roost and a glance upward told him that he had made thrice the progress easing to the south that he had downward. Clinging to the rock face, he held still, waiting to see if the dactyls would become aggressive toward his trespass. He was glad to find that, while they screeched and flapped in protest, they didn’t attack.

As he continued downward, still easing to the south as he went, a few of the bigger dactyls did become aggressive. He was forced to hold himself to the wall like an insect traveling the trunk of a tree full of hungry birds. As big as the dactyls were, even a larger one with a twelve- or thirteen-foot wingspan couldn’t hope to pull him off the wall. He was just too big. They could, however, pick and lash at his exposed back with their long, sharp beaks. And they did.

The harassment didn’t last long, and didn’t do any serious damage, but Bzorch felt fresh blood trickling down his back and knew that he had no chance in the water. The sky was lightening and the dactyls were filling the morning with a fever-pitched racket. Bzorch had to hurry and he knew it. He kept moving as much to his right as he did down. Another dactyl pecked at him as he found a shelf wide enough for him to stand and rest on. He threw a wild, battering blow at its head and connected. The stunned creature went semi-limp and half-glided, half-twirled down into the swamp. Its fall reminded Bzorch of a big leaf floating to the forest floor. In the light of early morning, yet still in the shadow of the fang, he watched the swamp bird splash down into a grassy shallow. He wasn’t surprised a moment later when an explosion of water erupted around the flailing form. After that, it was gone.

Seeing that he’d moved far enough south that he could climb down the rock face and step off onto land, he began to gather hope. When he started the descent, he didn’t see the Choska and its beautiful rider as it swept down at him from above.

***

The Warlord was disturbed by the size of the raid on his lair. Since the demons he called on had their minions devour the two groups with such cold and brutal efficiency, he was pleased, though. The fact that men had come in such a force meant that they knew how serious a threat was here. He had to act.

He decided that he didn’t need to wait out the winter. The spies and informants who served his hell-bound horde had informed them about the realm’s lax state. No one was afraid, no one was on guard, save for at the city of Xwarda where the precious Wardstone was. He knew he didn’t have to take the whole city to get it. The destruction would come after he used Shaella’s form to access the stuff and tear down the boundary.

To open the remaining seals, all he needed was for Shaella to place her hand on the Wardstone. All he had to do was to get her into Xwarda and before the stuff. He knew that the city’s forces were guarding it against armies and demons, not flawlessly beautiful women. Once, he had used her to open the seals, then he, and as many demons that could fit through, would come into the world and show the defenders of Xwarda just how foolish they were to believe that they could stave off the might of the Warlord and his legions. He wouldn’t be able to render the boundaries between the world of men and the Nethers impotent, though, until he gained access to the Wardstone in his own form. With an army of demons to distract the foolish people of Xwarda, he didn’t figure it would be hard. It would be as easy as killing the foolish Wedjakin that he was watching climb down toward his lair. Shaella’s head shook as the Warlord was in full control of her body. Had the half-beast not realized that he had been spotted long ago? The Warlord’s thoughts were disdainful. Men were ignorant and arrogant, and though these man-beasts were brutal, they were driven by instinct, and easily distracted.

The Choska needed food for the long flight to Xwarda they were about to undertake. What a perfect meal, the Warlord decided.

He told the Choska to feed on the Wedjakin. He’d waited for it to get where it was so that when the Choska knocked it from the wall, it wouldn’t plummet into the water. If that happened, the snappers would devour it before the Choska even had a chance. Now, though, it would land in the shallows, and the Master of Hell was excited to make him fall.

***

A sudden, jerking pain, so sharp that it nearly made Bzorch back off the ledge he was resting on, seared across his back. Instinctively, he clutched to the wall to keep from falling, but he craned his neck to see what had caused the horrible heat. What he saw was her.

Shaella’s short, spiky hair and her scar-free complexion couldn’t change her eyes, or the smug scowl of superiority.

Bzorch’s blood turned to ice as he realized his predicament. He was about to be killed, and he knew it without a doubt.

A crimson pulse shot forth from the Choska’s ember eyes and shattered an overhanging chunk of rock up above him. The hard, sharp pieces rained down on him like hammer blows, but he continued to hold tight. As soon as the debris stopped falling he shrugged the coil of line from his shoulder. The free end was tied to his wrist so that, in case it fell while he was climbing, he could pull it all back in.

The footing he was on was narrow, but he spun with animal grace so that his back was against the rock face. Then, as the Choska circled back around, he took the dragon gun from his other shoulder and aimed it. He knew to shoot high because of the weight of the line.

Neither the Choska, nor its beautiful rider, saw the weapon as they closed in for the kill. The demon was far bigger and stronger than a dactyl. It was too late for it to dodge the barbed spear when Bzorch fired. It screamed out a shrill, ear-piercing yell and dove sharply to the south as it was punctured. Shaella was nearly thrown from its back, but managed to hang on.

Moments later, Bzorch was yanked by his wrist from the rock face. He fell slowly at first, in a long, arcing swing, but as the speed of his descent increased, the Choska began to fall toward the ground, too. To his surprise, he suddenly rose, and quickly. He went up and over the southern edge of the shark-fin formation.

For a time the Choska carried him east, out over the open marsh. The beast was smart and swept low to the ground, forcing Bzorch to go dragging through the tangles of vegetation. The demon lifted back up, and the shaft eventually pulled free of it.

Bzorch went tumbling through the air. His big body crashed to a violent stop in the vast, predator-filled jungle, somewhere east of the Dragon’s Tooth.

With ten people in the party, the particular teleportation room they were about to use was overcrowded. It looked as if a herd of shaggy, two-legged creatures was trying to huddle together with a marble statue. There was no room for horses on this leg of the journey. Dostin and the two archers were forced to argue just to get included. The need for supply haulers won out, and they were issued cloaks made from the hide of some thickly furred beast, and then given shoulder packs full of food, oiled canvases, and chunks of a substance called everburn, which the giants favored for their fires.

Lieutenant Welch, Jicks, and Corva already had packs to carry. The group wouldn’t fail for want of supplies. Hyden Hawk was determined to make sure that there would be enough food and heat to sustain so many bodies if something went wrong.

According to the maps, horses wouldn’t have done them much good anyway. The day-and-a-half hike to the Leif Repline cavern was all rocky ledge and scree-littered ridgeway. It would be treacherous enough on foot. Horses would just slow them down.

Hyden wished the giants’ lore revealed more about what lay inside the cavern. Only a few human explorers had made it to the cave and into the first fountain chamber. All accounts agreed it was full of poison, probably to trick the greedy. A handful had ventured farther in and met the Gwag, but no one who made it beyond the creature bothered to tell his tale, save for an ancient wanderer called Olden. Olden lived for several hundred years, but in a time long before Pavreal, Dahg Mahn, and Shokin. He might have lived longer had he not openly predicted the fall of King Dar’Grav, thus earning him a trip to the Dakaneese ruler’s chopping block. Luckily the old man kept detailed journals. Phen had procured a copy for the quest. Hyden hoped that the reason there were no newer stories about the place was because people wanted to protect its integrity. By the way Oldin wrote about the explorers he filched, he never gave away all he knew about the fountain. Thirteen times, over the course of three centuries, he wrote entries about people finding him with questions about the Leif Repline. He said that they purchased maps and information from him for unbelievable prices, and then went off seeking immortality. Only one group had earned a second paragraph. They'd come back from the Giant Mountains telling of the ferocious Gwag, the poisoned entry fountain, and trolls so ornery that they had to be killed without hesitation.