Priestess of War (The Bowl of Souls Book 10), page 34
He had but one choice. Prepare for all threats. This meant he needed to accrue power.
Power was not a thing normally placed in the hands of a gnome. This was self-evident in the steward system. So he learned to work around it.
Justan pushed ahead. He saw Aloysius’ stalwart desire. He saw the atrocities committed in the name of future good.
Attempts at open advancement of his goals were always shut down so Aloysius grew devious and underhanded. He became the spider behind the scenes of the gnome homeland. He forged alliances with dark wizards, always with the intention of destroying them in the end.
Justan saw Aloysius decide to start the war to cleanse his country. He saw his botched attempt at binding a rogue horse. He saw the gnome’s true intentions at the day of the treaty signing.
Justan pulled back from the gnomes memories in exhaustion. I have seen what I needed to see, he told the gnome.
As have I, replied Aloysius, for as Justan had been looking through his memories, the gnome had been looking through Justan’s.
Justan pulled the gnome’s hand off of his sword, healing the wound as he went. When he was finished all that was left was the tiniest cut.
“What a remarkably fascinating experience,” Aloysius said, flexing his hand, while giving Justan a curious look. “You are a surprisingly complicated individual.”
Justan glared at him and turned on the Stranger. It was all he could do not to punch the ancient man in his negligent face. “This is your fault! You left him alone!”
“Yes I did,” Matthew said. “I accept full responsibility. I was not listening or I would have been at his side when he was born.”
“Well, you need to make up for it now!” Justan said.
Matthew nodded humbly. “That is what I am attempting.”
“That was actually quite tiring.” Aloysius slumped back into his chair. “So tell me, Sir Edge. What did you find in that head of mine?”
“You’re guilty of all of it! Everything I heard is true!” Justan snapped. “Even if you did those things in some misguided attempt for a better future, it does not make any of them acceptable.”
Should I kill him? Deathclaw asked.
Of course not! Justan replied.
The gnome warlord nodded. “After seeing your life and learning you the way I have, I knew you would feel that way. And yet I also know you will not kill me.”
“I can’t,” Justan said, slamming his fist into his palm. “Heaven knows you deserve it! That doesn’t matter, though. You have got to change your ways, but we are going to need you.”
“Very good!” Aloysius said. “So you have decided to help me?”
Justan glared at the flippant way he said that. “I will do what I can. But not for some distant future when you’re ‘supposed’ to be the general that leads us against nebulous evil. I’m doing it because we need you now. We are going to have to work together for the safety of the Grove.”
“I agree wholeheartedly,” Aloysius said with a smile.
Justan’s glare didn’t lessen. “There is a problem, though. As things are now, Xedrion will not trust a word you say.”
“Won’t he? He’ll now have your word.” The gnome said. “Matthew’s word.”
“Matthew? You mean the prophet that you are trying to control with your sword?” Justan said in derision. “Xedrion has been suspicious from the moment he saw you two together on the day of the treaty.” He shook his head. “Before we do anything else, you need to remove that sword from his back.”
Matthew stepped forward and placed a hand on Justan’s shoulder. “It is okay, Sir Edge. That is a step he will make when he is ready to release control. He-.”
“Yes-yes. That is what you keep telling me,” Aloysius interrupted. He looked to Justan. “But let me ask you something, my friend. You now know me better than anyone else. What are my feelings for the Stranger?”
“All your life, you learned to hate him,” Justan said.
The gnome raised an eyebrow. “And now?”
“Now you fear him,” Justan replied. “Because he can’t be controlled.”
Aloysius shook his head. “Because if I set him free, I have no guarantee that he will not abandon us again.”
“You don’t,” Justan agreed. “But then again, maybe you do. You have already been given proof that the Creator believes he’s reformed.”
“For now,” Aloysius said dismissively. “The Creator is too eager to forgive His servants. The Dark Prophet reformed three times before the Prophet was given permission to destroy him. I do not have that luxury.”
Justan stood firm. “You’re a logical thinker, but in this case, you are letting your emotions rule you.”
“I am not!” the warlord scoffed.
Justan held out his sword. “Do you want to hold onto Peace and think this through again?”
Aloysius narrowed his eyes. Grimacing, he stepped over to the Stranger and grasped the handle. “Very well, Sir Edge. I see that this must be done.”
“Are you certain?” Matthew asked, surprised at his quick acceptance.
“Of course not!” Aloysius said. He took a deep breath. “Before I do this, I need some assurances from you.”
Matthew nodded. “Such as?”
“You must continue to leave the birth rates of the races untouched,” Aloysius said.
“That goes against my recommendations,” Matthew warned. “But I will keep it as you wish.”
“Secondly, I want you very aware of one thing. You may have reformed yourself for now, but if you should ever return to your former ways, I will pierce you again and, if your master allows it, strike you dead!” the gnome promised.
“Aloysius,” Justan said. “I’m afraid I must give you the same warning. If you should ever turn into the monstrosity that you have so nearly become, I will be forced to kill you myself.”
“I will trust you to do what you feel is right, Sir Edge,” Aloysius said and in one smooth motion, removed the Sword of Mastery from the Stranger’s back.
Justan stumbled. A sudden tingle came over him.
What is it? Deathclaw asked, feeling the same tingling but not as strongly.
Justan realized that its source was from the bond. But how? He checked briefly and realized it was coming from his connection to Fist.
“Are you alright, Sir Edge?” Matthew asked.
“Hold on,” Justan said. He closed his eyes and reached through the bond as far as he could in his distracted state. A few moments later, he had his answer. “How is that possible? Surely it’s not. He’s far off in the mountains right now. Or he should be.”
What happened? Gwyrtha wondered.
Justan let out a short laugh. “Fist has been named.”
Chapter Twenty Two
Lyramoor hung limply, anchored to the wall by the clay golem’s unyielding flesh. Thick bands of it encircled his waist, feet, and arms, leaving his chest and head bare. She had stripped him down, leaving him without protection.
Days of torture had turned his mind numb. His only solace was that she hadn’t broken through his protections. The magical devices implanted in his body were still there, most importantly the one that allowed him to hide from pain. This was the device in his abdomen near his lower back, the only one that she could see with her spirit sight. Thankfully, his bluff had worked and she hadn’t yet dared try to remove it.
It was a brass ball containing the soul of a small dog named Tiko.
Lyramoor had first come across Tiko a year after being rescued by Sabre Vlad and his Academy unit. Lyramoor had not attempted to join the Academy right away. He was wealthy thanks to Khalpany’s king, who had paid him a princely sum as compensation for being held as a blood slave in his kingdom. He was also restless, eager to enjoy his newfound freedom.
His first journey had been to the elf homeland of his birth. The Pruball elves had been generous to him, welcoming him with open arms. He had even been able to meet his parents, who were overjoyed to see him. However, after two centuries at the hands of dwarves and orcs and dark wizards, he was no longer recognizable as their child. He was no longer recognizable as an elf. He stayed less than a month before things had grown so uncomfortable for him that he left in the night.
He had traveled then, aimlessly searching for ways to guarantee his freedom. He preferred to travel alone, untrusting of merchants and caravans. One night, while sleeping not far outside the city Gladstone he woke up to find Tiko staring back at him.
The small dog, shivering, half starved, and sickly, looked at him with trusting eyes. No one looked at Lyramoor with trusting eyes. Not back then. His look of perpetual anger had not faded from his days as a slave and the scars on his face told people that he was dangerous.
Tiko had remained his only companion for the space of two years. Lyramoor spent the time in Alberri, traveling to surgeons and wizards willing to accept his coin in order to give him the protections he sought. Sadly, the dog’s illnesses were not something that food and companionship could fix.
Lyramoor had a wizard place the brass ball, bound with Tiko’s soul, into his body where they would never be apart again. The place where his long ago harvested kidney had been was the perfect spot. Now, whenever in times of deep distress, whether it be the pain of torture or the trauma of the nightmares that plagued him, his mind could retreat to Tiko and the dog would comfort him.
He left Tiko now and returned to a body that was aching and trembling. He lifted his head and looked around the great room. The priestess was gone, as was her hound. He felt a vibration in the wall behind him and wondered if the battle had already started.
He had failed. Somehow, despite all his preparations, he had been unable to escape. There were metal implements hidden under his scars in several places. Picks for opening locks, small blades for cutting rope, even a throwing knife hidden in his shin. But the priestess had been too thorough.
He had no way to reach them. Even if he could his hands were now useless. She had broken his fingers. There was only one way he could help his friends now and it was something he dreaded above all else.
Lyramoor let out a bitter groan.
“Still alive, unwilling dog?” said Vastyr.
The pampered elf slave was sitting in his mistress’ throne, one knee thrown over the armrest. He held a wineglass in one hand, but the liquid inside was translucent and the color of amber, likely something stronger than wine.
Lyramoor looked over at his right hand. He winced. It was a mangled sight, his fingers bent and fixed at odd angles. Nevertheless, Cassandra had made one small mistake. It was so small she had missed it.
He thought fast. This was the first time he had been conscious while left alone with the slave. “Is that firewater?”
“If only,” the elf said with a sigh. “Whiskey. Haven’t had firewater in ages.”
“She don’t mind you gettin’ drunk? Won’t that mess up her blood feast?” he said with a bit more venom than intended.
Vastyr glared. “It adds to the experience, which you would know if you weren’t a disgusting vagabond.”
Lyramoor gritted his teeth, which hurt because Cassandra had shattered two of them. Willing elf slaves like Vaster were brought up in families with “blood drinker” hosts. They were taught from a young age that the sole point of their noble existence was to maintain their “blood drinker’s” habits and save them from devolving into frenzied vampires.
They called themselves the “willing.” To Lyramoor they were willing traitors, content to perpetuate an irredeemable evil. Pampered cattle is what they were.
He licked his lips and tried to make his voice sound understanding. “I knew that. Just not all drinkers like it. My first drinker said it gave her a headache.”
“How dare you call them that!” Vastyr snapped. He leaned back in the throne and took a gulp of his liquor. “Know your place, low thing.”
“You’re wrong about me, Vastyr. I wasn’t always one of the unwilling,” Lyramoor lied. He made up a tale on the spot hoping that the slave was as simple minded as he seemed. “I was born to a willing family. Our mistress was killed. Our family went to ground, but we were grabbed up by dwarves.”
“Indeed?” Vastyr’s interest had been piqued. He turned in the throne and faced the captured elf. “What was this mistress’ name?”
It wasn’t hard to pull one out of his mind. The dwarves had often talked about prospective buyers and vampires were always being hunted down and killed. Some of the high nobles managed to keep their drinking a secret all while fostering willing slaves like they were herds of foolish goats. “Kami D’Llen.”
Vastyr looked impressed. The willing were very strange about their regard for noble drinkers. “Really? That was before my time. But I heard of this mistress of yours. I thought that her willing were well taken care of after her murder.”
“We weren’t the lucky ones.” He looked down. “I was passed from dwarf to dwarf ever since. Taught to hate all drinkers.”
“I heard they do that,” Vastyr said in disgust.
“I only got one thing left to remember her by. Her mark,” he said.
The elf slave frowned. Marking a willing slave with a tattoo was a bit of a taboo, but some elf “families” did it willingly. “Kami D’Llen marked you herself?”
“My mother marked me at birth. That way I’d never forget.” He looked back over at his hand. “You can still see it on my wrist.”
“Really?” The pampered elf stood and approached him cautiously. “On your right wrist?”
“Yeah. The dwarves tried to hide it with a scar, but you can still see it,” Lyramoor said. The elf continued to approach. “It’s partly covered by the clay but, agh! It hurts to move my hand but I’ll try to let you see it.”
“That long scar at the base of your palm?” Vastyr asked, trying not to get too close. He kept out of the captive’s reach but tried to peer at the bit of the scar that moved right along Lyramoor’s vein.
“Right. It’s in blue ink . . .” Lyramoor sent a mental command to the tiny spirit of the deathwhisper hidden in his arm.
A needle sprang forth from the scar like a tiny dart, piercing Vastyr just in the corner of his eye. The deathwhisper was a tiny fleshy creature prized by assassins for its deadly venom. Its bound spirit had been waiting for that moment eagerly for decades, holding the poison within the needle until the right victim came along.
The pampered slave squealed, dropping his glass to break on the ground. He gingerly reached up and pulled the tiny needle out and flung it on the ground. “You monster! You filthy beast!”
His legs wobbled. He fell to the floor, cutting his face on the broken glass. He was numb by that time, unable to move. He only bled for a few seconds.
Lyramoor’s laugh was grim. Next came the hard part. He sent his thoughts back to spend a few last moments with Tiko while he waited.
The Priestess of War stood at the cliff’s edge, her form hidden by cunning weaves of air. It was here on this very section of the cliff that she had been struck down, caught unawares by a young dwarf with a magic hammer. It was for that reason she desired to launch her attack from this point. Let it become a place of victory instead of shame.
Cassandra smiled as she looked down at the slopes below. The Academy army with their paltry three thousand looked small from up here. She had to credit them for their perseverance.
Two solid days swarmed by wraithflies had barely slowed them down. Still, with supplies contaminated and constant fights breaking out, morale had to be low. Why not crush it completely? She had no reason to draw this out. A dejected army made for easy slaughter.
Grasping her mace in her right hand, she reached her earth magic into the cliffside below. Slowly, she raised both arms in the air. Using the mace wasn’t necessary, nor was raising her arms, but there was something satisfying about doing it.
The massive walls she had risen to hide her armies lowered back into the earth. The entire mountainside rumbled with such a raw display of power. The men afoot were jolted. Horses reared in surprise and a few men fell from their backs.
Out from hidden caverns and passages to the west and east side of the Academy forces came her army of orcs and human warslaves. Directly down the center, from the northern passes that led to the Black Lake, came her army of dead and infested.
The Academy forces faced numbers twice their size and Cassandra hadn’t yet released her reserves. Still, the well-trained troops behaved admirably, falling into disciplined ranks. Shieldmen and pikemen marched at the front, wizards and archers at the rear.
It was foolishness. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help but add one final jolt of fear. It was an old tactic and a bit dramatic, but she was fond of the old ways. Just as the armies rushed together, Cassandra sent out another surge of elemental magic.
Streams of air magic flowed over the army below to carry her words to all of the enemy forces. Her voice was reverberating and powerful, shaking the men below to their core.
“YOU COME TO YOUR DEATH! HAIL TO THE DARK PROPHET! HIS PRIESTESS OF WAR DESTROYS ALL!”
The old tactic was effective. The Academy’s front line was shaken just as the armies clashed. It buckled in several places, shieldmen were knocked down and pikemen rushed.
The downside of that spell was that it gave away her position to everyone with mage sight. Cassandra hurried away from the edge, throwing up shields of magic behind her as fireballs and lightning strikes were launched by wizards below. The clifftop was pounded and the section of rock where she had stood fell away, crashing to the slopes below. Undoubtedly many of her dead army were crushed, but they were of no concern. There were always plenty more.
As she walked briskly across the clifftop shelf towards the canyon that overlooked the Black Lake, she was joined by Raj. The striped lupero’s shoulders were at the same height as her head as it walked beside her.
