Seeing his opportunity. Graywing ran his sword through the iceman’s brisket, then leaped over him as he fell. “Get in here!” he yelled at Dartimien.
“Okay,” the unexpected gully dwarf said.
Beyond the shadowed opening were stone steps, leading upward. Graywing sprinted for them, with Dartimien right behind. For a moment it seemed they were alone in the dark base of the tower. The Tarmites and Gelnians outside had noticed one another again.
Graywing sped upward, taking the steps three at a time, then stopped so suddenly that Dartimien collided with him from behind. They dodged aside, clinging to the wall, as the limp body of still another iceman tumbled past. A broken spear shaft protruded from the big primitive’s back. Even in the dim light they could see the black markings on its shaft.
“Cave vandals,” the Cat hissed. “Vulpin’s pet assassins.”
Above were the whispers of soft boots on stone, and descending shadows. Dark cloaks swirled and the shadows were men-tall, silent, dark men with painted faces and painted weapons, descending from somewhere above.
As they saw the assassins, the assassins saw them. The one in the lead didn’t so much as hesitate. Bright steel glinted in shadow and flashed downward, a thrown dart with triad points. The device clanged off the wall where Dartimien had been an instant before, and the lead assassin pulled another from his belt. But before he could throw it, Graywing reached him, a howling fury of lethal Cobar with his razor-edged sword singing its song of death. The lead assassin never knew what hit him.
A second dark cloak shrilled and pitched from the stairs into darkness below, clutching at the hilt of Dartimien’s thrown dagger which stood in his breast.
Then a third assassin screamed, staggered and seemed to shrink abruptly. Graywing blinked in surprise. Neither he nor the foe had noticed the little gully dwarf with the big broadsword, until its blade slashed across the caveman’s knees. It was the same gully dwarf who had sailed out of nowhere moments before, right into the face of an iceman.
“Wow,” Bron said. “Pretty good bash. Real hero stuff.”
“Where did you come from?” Dartimien hissed.
Bron looked puzzled. “Dunno,” he confided. “Guess I was jus’ born. Ol’ Glitch my dad, so Lady Lidda prob’ly my mom.”
“I don’t want your lineage!” Dartimien snapped. “How did you get to this tower?”
“Oh, that,” Bron said. “Fling-thing flang … flu … toss me over here.”
Below them, a faded blue robe full of gravel crashed through the doorway, rattling and scraping as it dragged a long, flexible pole across the stone paving.
“That fling-thing,” Bron pointed. “Guess ever’-body through with it.”
Another cave assassin appeared on the stairs above, and from beyond came the abrupt sounds of fierce combat. Dartimien recognized the rumbling oaths of at least two more icemen and the soft, shuffling footsteps of cave assassins. The last, best forces of Lord Vulpin and Chatara Kral had met, somewhere above.
“Thayla’s up there,” Graywing growled. With a bound, the plainsman dodged the falling, tumbling corpse of a beheaded caveman and charged up the stairway.
“You’re crazy!” Dartimien shouted after him, but Graywing was already gone. “Gods,” the Cat muttered. Relieving a dead cave assassin of a pair of serviceable daggers, he sprinted upward, grumbling.
Chapter 24
Chatara Kral, rumored daughter of the mightiest of Dragon Highlords, was a formidable warrior in her own right. Though striking of face and form, the daughter of Verminaard despised and shunned the gentle teachings offered in her childhood by tutors and tenders. She hated them, just as she hated her arrogant brother Vulpin. Since childhood she had trained in the deadly arts, preparing for just this time-when she would face her despised brother and claim the legacy that should be hers alone, a legacy promised by her father when he pledged the dark ways in exchange for power.
From the day in Chatara Kral’s childhood when her father had dedicated his service to Takhisis, goddess of evil, Chatara Kral had known her destiny. She would rule! By any means necessary, she would have everything and anything she wanted, when she wanted it. All around her would be her subjects, and none would dispute her dominance and continue to live.
Pure, unencumbered power would be her inheritance. Her father had bargained with a goddess for such rewards, but something had gone amiss. Takhisis had abandoned her quest and her followers.
But still Chatara Kral blazed with ambition. If she could not inherit absolute power, she would take it for herself. She would have the world, or as much of it as she cared to take, and all its riches. And she did not intend to share.
Chatara Kral had always known that one day her brother Vulpin would be an obstacle. His dreams were like hers, but in the world they both envisioned there could be only one absolute ruler.
Thus Vulpin-now the Lord Vulpin of Tarmish as she was now regent of Gelnia-must be eliminated. With him out of the way, Chatara Kral would be invincible. The Vale of Sunder would be her base. From here, her armies of conquest would march.
Such was her legacy from that shadowy, cruel figure who had sired her. And she knew beyond doubt-none other than Dred the Necromancer, communer with the dead, had told her-that nothing in this world could stop her from claiming it.
She was invincible, and she was without scruple. Thus when she and the last of her elite guard-brutish, stoic icemen from the frozen south-found themselves trapped in the Tower of Tarmish, Chatara Kral did not hesitate. Behind her and ahead of her were cave assassins, the favored instruments of Lord Vulpin. When these met her phalanx of axe-wielders, Chatara Kral committed her icemen to a battle to the death.
She would lose most of them, she knew. She might even lose all of them. It made no difference. She could always entice more followers. Casually she betrayed them, and the chaos that ensued in the murky tower gave her what she wanted. As her faithful savages bled and died for her on the winding stairs, demolishing Vulpin’s assassins even as they fell, Chatara Kral slipped past and headed for the top.
From the shattered portal opening onto Lord Vulpin’s aerie, she saw her goal-Vulpin himself, holding an ivory stick in one hand and a cringing, frightened girl in the other.
The Wishmaker! So Vulpin really had it, and had found someone to activate it!
With a snarl like a serpent’s hiss, Chatara Kral started toward her brother. Two cave assassins came from shadows to confront her, guarding their lord, and she knew that they were the last. Chatara Kral’s gleaming sword glinted in the light. The primitive cave vandals were among the most feared fighters in Ansalon, but for Chatara Kral they would be the work of a moment. Then Vulpin would be alone.
Vulpin saw his sister emerge from the portal, and was not surprised. He had known she would come. But now his haste became frenzied. The girl, Thayla Mesinda, was so terrified that she could hardly speak. Yet the words she must voice, the spoken wish that worked the magic of the Wishmaker, must be exact.
“Listen to me, girl,” Vulpin snapped, impatiently. “You must memorize this! The talisman is a spell-maker. Your wish will shape the spell. You will wish three things! Do you understand?”
“Three … three things,” Thayla whispered.
“Three things. The first is that Chatara Kral must die.”
“Chata … Chatara …”
“Chatara Kral!” Vulpin spat the name.
“Chatara Kral,” Thayla repeated it. “I will wish for Chatara Kral to die.”
Vulpin’s last two assassins were blocking Chatara Kral’s path, their weapons threatening. Somewhere near,
