With a roar, she started up the stairs, heartened by the sounds of a dozen of her warriors rushing close behind.
Moreen’s lungs strained for some fresh air. Her limbs were leaden, her eye stinging with the sweat trickling off of her forehead. Her already blurry vision was reduced to a small patch of light before her, and in that light she seemed to see only an endless string of steps leading upward.
Kerrick was at her side. When she stumbled he reached out, finding the strength to bear them both. She remembered his ring and dreaded the price he would pay for this magical sustenance, but she also understood that, for now, it was their only chance to reach the Alchemist.
They had to stop and catch their breath. It was then that they heard shouts from below and the unmistakable sounds of pursuit-heavy boots clomping on the stairs, weapons clattering, butts of spears cracking against the flagstones.
Kerrick was looking at her oddly, his expression remote. She drew a breath, steadied her nerves. “Let’s keep going,” she said. “I can keep up.”
“Wait,” he said abruptly. “We have to slow them down somehow.”
“How?” she asked. He went to a large stone table, one of several placed at the various landings. It must have weighed a few hundred pounds, but he pushed against it and toppled it over, then shoved it across the floor until he had wedged it firmly atop the flight of stairs. Giving it a final push, he fixed it in place as a barrier. He turned and gave her a grin.
Once more they flew up the steps, around corners, one after the other, until they came to a landing. There were two arches leading to a sunlit outer parapet and one door in the opposite wall. Most importantly, there were six ogres standing in front of the door, staring at them in shock and disbelief, scrambling to lower spears and draw swords against an attack they had clearly thought inconceivable.
Kerrick didn’t hesitate. He rushed forward across the narrow landing, his sword raised. Two ogres were slain in quick stabs. The other four roared and closed in, spears thrusting, blades chopping. One by one they howled with pain, falling to the whistling blade, the steely determination of the elven Messenger. In a few seconds four of the ogres were dead, and the other two were crawling away, bleeding and moaning.
Kerrick thrust the sword through his belt and raised his fist, furiously prepared to smash the door down. Only then did Moreen rush forward, restraining him. She reached out, lifted the latch, and pushed the unlocked door open.
The elf rushed into the room, Moreen at his heels. The chamber was thick with shadow, smelling of arcane fumes. She saw a man seated at a cluttered bench looking up at them. There was a large globe of pure, immaculate gold just behind him, the only brightness in the room. The chiefwoman couldn’t read the expression on the thin, withered face, but slowly the man, on wobbling legs, stood to face them.
“Are you the Alchemist?” she demanded.
“I am called that, yes,” he replied. His voice was weak and reedy, yet somehow familiar. His features were also distinctive, vaguely reminiscent of… what?
Silvanesti!
She turned to Kerrick and saw an expression of shock mingled with horror on his face. All at once she understood.
“Moreen, Lady of Brackenrock,” Kerrick almost spit the bitter words, in that same accent, the silky elven tongue. “This is my father, Dimorian Fallabrine, once a hero of Silvanesti, a leader to make every elf proud. Now, you see, he is the Alchemist, pawn of an ogre king.”
24
“My lord king, beware!” cried Three-Tusk, pushing Grimwar Bane to the side.
Those were the last words the loyal Grenadier ever spoke. The ogre king stumbled, dropped to one knee, and the next thing he knew the berserk Highlander was pulling his axe away, leaving Three-Tusk lying on the ground fatally bleeding from a slash through his neck.
The human, his voice shrieking weirdly-the familiar shriek the king had heard at the gatehouse of Brackenrock-was clearly not finished. Another ogre stepped into the bearded man’s path, and he, too, was cut down. A third Grenadier swung his sword, slicing a deep gouge in the attacker’s arm. The maniac didn’t even seem to react. Instead, he yelled even louder and spun himself through a circle, slashing his axe like a spinning top, leaving bloody wounds in several burly ogres.
Another human, a blond swordsman of impressive physique, also charged in a short distance behind the berserker. Neither of these intrepid attackers was the elven Messenger, the ogre monarch noted grimly, as he tried to rally his men.
“Fight, my Grenadiers!” he commanded. His veteran warriors formed a wall around the king, pressing shoulder to shoulder to prevent either attacker striking directly at Grimwar Bane, shielding the royal personage with their own flesh.
Both humans stabbed and chopped at the ring of the ogres. One ogre threw a spear, piercing the thigh of the berserker. Even then the man didn’t fall. He turned and lunged at the spearman, almost striking him with his whirling axe. But the wound was grievous, slowing the Highlander’s movements enough that another one of the king’s guards had a chance to close in with a sudden lunge. This time the berserker’s axe found ogre flesh, but at the same time the Grenadier’s sword thrust plunged into the human’s chest. Still howling his battle cry, the stricken warrior stumbled to the side, barely avoiding the next blow.
At the same time the blond-haired Highlander was trying to hack through the ogre ring from the other side. He was a skilled swordsman. His blade struck one Grenadier’s wrist, almost cutting off the hand, then deflected a slashing blow from another of Grimwar’s bodyguards. The force of that parry knocked the man off balance, however, and quickly a third ogre leaped close, swinging his spear like a club. The shaft, as thick around as a man’s wrist, caught the Highlander on the side of his head and he dropped like a felled tree, sprawling motionless on the ground.
Seeing his comrade fall, the berserker’s voice rose to a frenzy. Bleeding from many wounds, hampered by the spear still lodged in his leg, he nevertheless rushed the ogres and, with a single slice, killed the one who had felled his comrade, splitting his forehead with a savage downward chop of his axe.
That attack came at terrible cost, as the Highlander exposed his back for a moment. One ogre stabbed, another threw his spear, and the human fell on his face, pinned to the ground, the spear point emerging from his chest. Still he tried to fight on, pushing with his hands, struggling to roll over, as the rest of Grimwar’s escort brought their weapons down in a gory orgy of murderous vengeance.
Only then did the king step over to the big blond human, who was bleeding from a wide cut over his ear. Grimwar rolled him over, looked at him critically.
“This one is still breathing,” said the monarch. “Tie him up. I will interrogate him if he lives.”
“You created such a weapon? A device that could destroy an entire citadel, a whole community of people?” Kerrick demanded. His face was taut. He spoke tersely, stalking around his father’s chamber, his eyes never leaving that withered, cadaverous, and eerily kindred visage.
“I am sad to see that it is happening to you. I should never have left it for you. Nor would I, if I had understood…” Dimorian’s voice was wistful, rambling, distant as though he heard not a word his son had uttered.
“What are you mumbling about?” snapped Kerrick. “Listen to me. Don’t you understand that you are a pawn of evil?”
Dimorian, who was the Alchemist, sighed, gazing at the metal sphere with its cold, almost obscene beauty. “Evil, yes. You speak, of course, of the golden orb. Yes, I fear that was my handiwork. I had no way, of course, to know it would be used against my own son or his friends.”
