As Ariakas studied the place, his hand came to rest against his chin, and he explored the deep scar that remained from the slice of the kender's knife. No mirror allowed him to inspect the cut, yet his fingers had told him many times in the past week that the wound was wide, gaping from the ridge of his chin into his lower lip. He could press his tongue between the two halves of that cut, and though the injury had healed without infection, it created difficulties in eating and drinking. His imagi shy;nation told him that the raw flesh in the cut glared angry and red.
Since his encounter with the kender, Ariakas had spent many hours reflecting on his carelessness. He felt bitter shame for his loss of control, knowing that-if he'd kept his wits about him-he could have avoided that slashing blade. Why had the bitch been so foolishly self-destructive? He wrestled with the question for the thou shy;sandth time. Surely she knew she had no chance against his sword. Or had she really felt that he'd lose complete control, enabling her to strike a killing blow?
An unusual sense of disquiet permeated the warrior's thoughts. His confidence sorely waned with the memory of his last challenge-a simple retrieval of his locket, an operation that left him maimed. Was that failing the fac shy;tor that brought him now to this formidable tower, con shy;templating this mad task? Or was it, perhaps, the ogres? He bore no love for the beasts, and the murder of his father, plus a thousand other outrages, had given him ample desire for vengeance. Did rank hatred propel him into this suicidal course?
He knew that he was driven by more than this. Uncon shy;sciously, he reached his hand into the pouch at his side and curled it around the solid box of the locket. Then, as always, his imagination completed for him the image of a woman-the woman, she had become.
As always, he was amazed at the clarity, the consis shy;tency of his mental image. Of course, he had the likeness of the tiny picture to begin with, but a full array of addi shy;tional details had been added by his mind. Only the woman's clothing ever changed-now in his thoughts she wore a flowing dress of powdery blue, whereas this morning his imagination had pictured her in a filmy gown of silky white. Her shoulders were bare, for the dress was cut low, and her long, ink-black hair was coiled upon her scalp with queenly majesty.
Her face was long, sculpted in a beauty too serene for words. Her dark eyes alternately flashed and wept, and her sweeping neck was adorned with glittering jewels. Graceful fingers rose to her face, as if she felt his intru shy;sive presence. But, too, it was an intrusion that he sensed she wanted, for her breasts rose and fell with the increased tempo of her breathing, her lips parted, moist, in silence that he took as invitation.
Why did he feel compelled to reach her? The 'lady' in the tower, she had been to the kender…. She was rich, a princess, perhaps. Ariakas liked money, had felt the draw of wealth throughout his life-had even known the pleasures of extravagance, when coins had flowed from his fingers like water over a dam. It was a grand feel shy;ing-wealth-and a powerful summons.
But it was not the thing that drew him now.
Night pulled in its shutters, and the tower disap shy;peared from view-except for one high window, where a yellow light broke the stygian darkness like a solitary star. Clouds lowered, and flurries of snow eddied around Ariakas, but still that light gleamed like a bea shy;con, calling him onward and upward.
He rested through the night, sleeping little. When he did close his eyes, the image of the lady grew and burned in his mind. After a few moments of this, he would awaken and stare at the tower, at the lone light that still flamed in the sky, even as dawn began to color the eastern horizon.
Despite his restless night, he crawled from his bedroll with a sense of vigor and purpose. The mist had burned away, and the tower stood out in stark black outline against the clear sky. The sun sent its first probing rays from beyond the horizon, and these illuminated the highest peaks-and, soon, the tower. Yet when sunlight struck the dark walls, it seemed that the brightness van shy;ished into the black stone surfaces.
His observation was interrupted then by a strange sound-the first noise he'd heard in many days other than the moaning of the wind or the splashing of a mountain rivulet. It was the unmistakable clink of metal against metal, and in a few moments Ariakas discerned the measured beat of footsteps.
Pulling down behind the security of the twin boulders, he studied the pathway below. Shortly a large metal- clad figure came into view, swaggering up the trail. It took Ariakas less than a second to recognize the brute as an ogre. A great, toothy mouth gaped wide below a blunt snout, and twin tusks, yellowed with age, jutted upward from the corners of the jaw. The creature stood fully eight feet tall, with a barrel-sized chest and two huge, stumpy legs. As it marched it cast wicked eyes to the left and right, diligently searching the slope above the trail.
Ariakas crouched and froze, listening as the brute trundled past. By then he could hear the sounds of other marchers, grunting, groaning, and cursing under some strain. Risking another look, the man saw that the lead ogre had disappeared around the next bend in the trail. Immediately below, a pair of ogres labored under the weight of a heavy log, precariously balanced across their broad shoulders. Others came into view, each hauling a tree trunk destined, Ariakas speculated, for the fireplaces of the lofty keep.
Finally the band of ogres worked its way around the bend, but still Ariakas held his position, waiting and watching the trail. Minutes passed. The sounds of the grumbling ogres faded up the trail. Still the warrior waited.
A man came into sight, walking slowly and carefully up the path. Like the ogre who had led the column, he scanned the slopes above the trail with diligence and caution. His hand rested on the hilt of a long sword, and the weapon swung at the strange warrior's side with a grace that spoke of long familiarity.
More significant was the man's armor. Ariakas allowed his face to twist into a scar-split smile when he saw the metal helm-it included a visor lowered to cover the warrior's face. He was a large fellow, well-muscled and long of leg. Like the fully masked helm, these facts also met with the approval of the figure concealed above the trail.
Ariakas took a quick glance up the path, checking that the ogres remained out of sight. He then hefted a small stone, nestling the oblong shape in his palm as he watched the lone rear guard pass his place of conceal shy;ment. The blank mask of the helmet faced upward, and Ariakas froze while the gaze swept past his niche. Fortu shy;nately, as he had expected, the narrow vantage point and the surrounding shadows concealed him.
Then, as the rear guard looked farther up the trail, Ariakas pitched the stone through the air, watching as it fell perfectly-about ten feet on the other side of the war shy;rior, down the slope.
The fellow would have been inhuman if he had ignored the sudden rattle of sound. The man's sword was in his hand in a flickering instant, instinctively slashing the air behind him. Only then did he hear the sounds above.
Whirling, the warrior raised his long sword to face Ariakas, who plunged his broadsword downward with both hands. The guard staggered backward, then dropped his blade, and for a sickening instant Ariakas feared that he would plummet over the edge of the steep trail. But the man caught his balance, and his faceless helm dipped downward for a fraction of a second as he looked for his weapon. That splinter of time was enough-Ariakas thrust sharply, aiming for the gap between the man's helm and his breastplate. The sword slipped through the niche, and the guard groaned once, an exhalation of shock and surprise. Then he slumped to the ground, dead.
Now Ariakas had to work fast. Glancing up at the lofty tower, he saw no movement, no sign of any reaction at all. All he could do was hope that he remained unob shy;served. Swiftly he tore off his own leather armor, replac shy;ing it with the dead man's plate mail and helm. Discarding his knapsack, he took the locket, his dagger, and- after only a moment's hesitation-the flask of lavarum and stuffed them into his small belt pouch.
Slipping the helmet over his head, he dropped the faceplate to conceal his features. After cleaning and sheathing his own sword, he started up the trail. As he jogged along, he slipped the shoulder plates over his arms and pulled the gauntlets onto his hands.
With the faceplate down, he knew he presented a rea shy;sonable facsimile of the man he had slain. How long he could maintain the charade he didn't dare to guess.
Instead, he concentrated on closing the distance that sep shy;arated him from the ogres and their heavy load of fire shy;wood.
The trail twisted and wound on its way up the narrow crag adjacent to the ogres' tower. Ariakas's lungs struggled for air as he lumbered ahead, dragged down by the unfamiliar weight of metal armor. Finally he came around a bend and caught a glimpse of the steep upward slope before him. The brutes had apparently been wait shy;ing, for some of the ogres lolled on the ground around their great logs while others stamped their feet impa shy;tiently and glared back down the trail.
As soon as Ariakas came into sight, the sitting ogres lurched to their feet, though with some visible reluctance to resume their labors. One of them gave him a casual wave, which the warrior returned, while the
