The only problem I see is that while we don t know if those miners down there have noticed any undead lurking about, someone probably has noticed the Storm sitting on the mountainside. What if the villagers figure out that we freed the demons ourselves? What if they send word to the Iron Lord? I admit, it s unlikely
More than unlikely, said Bez, impossible. The fiends are going to prove just what a terrible threat they are by wiping out the village. Well, technically, we re going to do it for them, but I m sure that if they knew, they d appreciate our efforts on their behalf. Then, after we finish the miners, we ll crack open the trap, kill its prisoners, and take their heads.
NINE
A griffon is about to fly down among us! Aoth shouted in Elvish. Don t shoot at him! He s Jet, my steed that I told you about!
Everyone stood and waited for the creature to appear, and shortly thereafter, Aoth pointed with his spear and said, There. Then an enormous shadow swept over the snowy ground.
Jet swooped to the ground. Heeding Aoth s warning, no one attacked the griffon. But some of the stag warriors couldn t resist the impulse to raise their weapons.
Jet looked them over and snorted. Relax, he rasped, I m not going to hurt you. Now, if you were centaurs or maybe not. I ve seen things lately that put me off horseflesh.
So you told me, Aoth said. He advanced, scratched among the feathers atop the griffon s head, then lifted Cera out of the saddle and gave her a hug.
The Stag King strode up to them, and to Jet, with no apparent hesitation. Either he was confident the griffon wouldn t lash out at him, or he was simply unwilling to act timidly.
Highness, said Aoth, this is Cera Eurthos, sunlady of Soolabax, and Jet, my familiar. Cera, Jet, this is the Stag King.
Smiling, Cera moved her hand in an arc, and for a moment, the pale winter sunlight shone brighter and felt warmer. Hello, she said. The Keeper s blessing on you and all your company.
The Stag King grunted. Your god doesn t love me, cleric, nor I, him, he said. How near are these berserkers of yours?
Cera blinked. You should meet up well before dusk, she said.
Then let s pick up the pace, the spirit said, and find out what this army of ours looks like when we put it all together. Turning away, he swung his antler weapon over his head to urge the company onward.
Well, the priestess said. That was a gracious welcome.
Even though he hails from the Feywild rather than the Shadowfell, Aoth replied, he s a dark thing, like the fomorians, and perhaps not partial to clerics of the light.
Aoth, Cera, Jhesrhi, and Jet started forward amid the stag men, most of whom were still keeping a cautious eye on the griffon and making sure they didn t get too close.
But enough about him, Aoth said. By the Pure Flame, it s good to see you again! Both of you! What s your impression of the Griffon Lodge? How s their morale?
Oh, that s no problem, said Jet, a sardonic note in his voice.
Meaning what? Aoth replied.
Jet said he told you about the fey mound, Cera said.
Yes, said Aoth. It s a miracle that any traveler ever gets anywhere in Rashemen, considering that you have to change direction or stop to make an offering to a spirit twenty times a day. But my understanding was that Vandar did mollify the guardian, and it lifted the curse.
It did, Cera said, but then something else started to happen. Gradually, so Jet and I didn t notice at first. That s why you re only hearing about it now. Keeping her voice low, she explained what she meant.
When she finished, Aoth said, I hate this stinking country.
Like Mangan Uruk s castle, the Fortress of the Half-Demon was built of gray stone and black iron, but it had an even more massive and squared-off look to it. Apparently the round towers and turrets that graced the stronghold in Immilmar were a Rashemi innovation.
The ancient Nars, however, had adorned if that was the right word the citadel with a huge iron gate cast in the form of a snarling inhuman face. At some point in the centuries that followed, the leaf on the right side had fallen from its hinges. That left only one profile of the ghastly countenance standing, and, Aoth assumed, inspired the name the place had borne ever since.
Lying prone to peer over a rise, he shifted his gaze from the gate to the battlements. Someone or something was moving around up there, but Aoth was so far away that even his eyes were having trouble discerning what. Hoping it would help, he touched a tattoo that sent a bracing thrill of vigor through his body. He squinted, too, and the tiny figures came into focus.
One was a squat little goblin spearman with greenish skin, pointed ears, and a shaggy mane of hair sticking out in all directions from under his conical helmet. The other was considerably larger. Indeed, if the stooped thing stood up straight, it might be taller than the Stag King. Judging from its long arms, spindly frame, and warty carrot of a nose, it was likely a troll, although its white, glistening skin distinguished it from any such creature Aoth had encountered farther south. So did its mail, crossbow, and falchion.
The trolls of his experience were scarcely more intelligent than beasts. They lived like beasts in the wild, and even when some enterprising commander managed to tame one and use it as a soldier, it was rarely given weapons or armor. There was no point. In the excitement of battle, a troll would almost always strip away the gear and assail the foe with fang and claw.
The white trolls of the North Country were evidently different. But not, Aoth suspected, so different as to pose an insurmountable problem. He was more concerned about reanimated durthans and other undead, but there were none in view for the scouting.
Of course, that only made sense. Even undead who could tolerate sunlight didn t like it. So why would they man the battlements by day when their living allies creatures who d thrown in with the durthans during the Witch War and had rallied to their cause again could do it for them?
When he judged that he d seen all he was going to, Aoth crawled backward far enough so that no one on the battlements would see him when he stood up. He tramped back to the relatively clear patch of rolling heath where his allies waited and was pleased to find that, though the berserkers and the stag men didn t show any signs of having become fast friends in his absence, the two groups at least appeared to be tolerating one another. Perhaps they found each other so strange that their first impulse was to marvel rather than feel fear or revulsion.
Vandar was sitting on a stump with a number of his lodge brothers gathered around him. When he spotted Aoth returning, he beckoned to him with a flick of his new spear. To fire-kissed eyes, the red metal gleamed with something more than reflected sunlight; Aoth could see the enchantments flowing and seething inside it.
That didn t make it any less annoying to be summoned like a subordinate. Still, it seemed too petty a matter to complain about, and Vandar s current location was as good a spot for a parley as any. Aoth headed for it as requested. He just made sure he didn t hurry.
What did you find out? Vandar asked.
Aoth glanced around and found that, as expected, the Stag King, Cera, Jhesrhi, Jet, and Zyl had begun converging on their location.
Let s wait until everyone can hear. Then I ll only have to tell it once.
Vandar scowled. As you wish, he said. He sounded like he was doing Aoth a favor.
Cera and Jet were right, Aoth thought. Vandar was different. He d thought that at least a grudging trace of camaraderie had grown up between the berserker and himself, but if so, there was no sign of it. Instead, Vandar seemed even testier and more suspicious than on the occasion of their first meeting.
Were the red sword and spear exerting a psychic influence? Aoth had never borne such weapons and wouldn t want to, but he d heard stories about them.
If the weapons were to blame, Aoth supposed he might as well get used to the new Vandar. For it was plain that he prized the enchanted arms too highly to ever give them up.
