of nature, which he supposed was all a reflection of the goddess Chislev. The feeling quickly passed, however; Cazuvel was not a part of that world and sought no solace in it.
Cazuvel had been told that the sellsword was on his way. He spent a few minutes sketching out a pattern of magic in the air with his dagger, as an artist might use a pencil, gestures invisible to eyes not sensitive to such things. The delicate threads of magic crisscrossed the roof, hanging there in space, waiting for him to flood them with his arcane power. Instead of completing the spells, however, the mage conjured forth a series of invisible energy receptacles, fist-sized constructs of magic, and stored a considerable amount of his personal energy within them. He linked those receptacles to the patterns with a sliver of power, just enough to keep them active and aware. The patterns were traps, primed with sorcery, and once he was done with them, Cazuvel would be instantly alerted to the presence of any intruders as their proximity closed the magical circuit and released the stored power into the traps.
Cazuvel would need to set up more patterns, also connected to storehouses of power. They would be located on the grounds of the castle and perhaps surrounding several windows. To do that, he had to go to those places.
The wizard took a step off the battlements, dropping softly from them toward the ground a hundred feet below, robes fluttering. His descent frightened off the brightly colored birds that found their usual perches along the lower crenellations. Animals sensed the creature he truly was. He needed to be more cautious if it came to being in the presence of horses or other trained animals, for he did not want to alert anyone to his fundamental nature just yet.
Walking around the base of the castle, Cazuvel set up more of his wards and enchantments, poised for activation, strung together like chains of anemones, beautiful and alien. It was a shame they weren’t visible to the uninitiated. Cazuvel had developed a sense of vanity since he had assumed the mage’s form. The transformation was deep, and Cazuvel’s personality had crossed over to some extent; the creature felt emotions, passions, desires, and other weaknesses of mortality. It wouldn’t be long, however. Soon he would shed all of those. For the time being, the creature decided he would enjoy them all, the taste of flesh-and-blood frailty that his dark kind could not ordinarily possess.
Once his work was complete, Cazuvel transported himself into the castle’s great hall, appearing before a huge rectangular arrangement of tables. In the center of the arrangement, a fire pit filled with coals and covered by an elaborate iron grate gave light to the chamber. Tapestries of Solamnic heraldry and symbols of the Knights covered the otherwise bare gray walls of stone. Even with the dragonarmy’s occupation of Nordmaar, and the baron’s forced departure from his ancestral home, the trappings of Solamnic nobility remained behind. Cazuvel wondered why Rivven Cairn allowed that to be so.
The sivaks weren’t in there, so Cazuvel made use of the time to sit on one of the two high-backed chairs that rose above the others on a dais. A part of the true Cazuvel’s mental imprint that had come with the body filled the creature with pride, a sense of achievement. The mage had been ambitious, Cazuvel thought. That was a large part of his undoing, of course. It was another flaw of mortal character, but particularly among Black Robes. The true Cazuvel dwelled in the shadow of Raistlin Majere, Fistandantilus, even Ladonna, Black Robes all, and could not help but aspire to those worthies. Unfortunately for the hapless sorcerer, aspirations were no substitute for true power.
Power was something Highmaster Rivven Cairn had, Cazuvel reflected. She was not a dedicated wizard; she had undertaken the Test, yes, but she hadn’t taken up the robes as her brother and sister mages had. She wore armor and bore that elven sword. Still, it was a common rumor among the Tower wizards that Rivven had been a student of Emperor Duulket Ariakas himself. Neither the true Cazuvel nor the creature that wore his likeness had ever met Ariakas, but the emperor’s might had extended into realms beyond this one, enough that the Abyss rippled with the aftershocks when he was assassinated. With such a master, Rivven must know secrets Cazuvel must have longed to attain for himself. Since the creature boasted Cazuvel’s psyche, those desires were his as well.
“Honored master,” called a voice from the hall’s entrance. It was one of the sivaks, filling the doorway with his great silvery bulk. Cazuvel twirled a finger, temporarily channeling some of his power from the arcane structures filling the castle and strengthening the magic that maintained his appearance. With any luck, the sivak wouldn’t suspect a thing.
“Enter,” the mage said. The sivak, who went by the name of Aggurat, was the Red Watch commander. His three subordinate officers were probably stationed elsewhere on that floor, maybe even standing motionless like statues in mockery of the empty suits of armor that Baron Glayward kept there. Cazuvel had spoken only once or twice with Aggurat, and he didn’t know the other three sivaks’ names. It was normal not to, Aggurat had told him. The mage had no need to ever address the others, in accordance with dragonarmy protocol.
Aggurat marched up and around the tables, standing before Cazuvel’s chair. The sivak was so tall that he and the mage met at eye level. Cazuvel admired the strength and power in those creatures. The Red Watch were the elite; he hoped he would not need to test that strength and skill personally. “Honored master,” Aggurat said, “our scouts have reported no sign of the sellsword, nor any evidence of a traveling gnome and an ugly human female companion.”
“The highmaster says we are to expect them. How reliable are your scouts?”
“Master, they are kapak scouts who have worked for us for some time,” Aggurat said. “They were hand- picked by the upper echelons of the Red Watch and by Emperor Ariakas himself.”
Cazuvel doubted that. Ariakas rarely deigned to speak to his draconian servants, let alone personally select a few lowly kapak draconian sneaks to serve as scouts or rangers. Aggurat must be embellishing the matter.
“I see,” said the wizard. “Am I to understand, however, that your scouts are limited to ground-based reconnaissance? None of them are capable of flight, as are you and your sivak brothers.”
“That is correct, master. Do you suspect the sell-sword and his allies of approaching from the air? I cannot imagine how-”
Cazuvel waved a hand. “I trust the highmaster,” he said. “If she says they approach, then they approach. If your kapaks have seen no evidence by the roads and jungle paths, then they must look to the skies.”
“Regrettably, master, the skies are unreachable to the kapaks, and we have no fliers.”
“On the contrary,” Cazuvel said. “You have yourselves.”
Aggurat stiffened. The draconian’s deep and sibilant voice rose an octave. “But, master, we were given strict instructions to aid and protect you here.”
“I am well protected. The castle is well protected. Indeed, the lands immediately around the walls of the castle are well protected. Your instructions were to serve at my pleasure, were they not?”
“Yes, honored master.”
Cazuvel smiled and leaned back in the chair, letting its wooden confines surround him. “Excellent. Then do as I have commanded. Take wing and patrol the skies above the jungle. Maintain a perimeter of at least a mile, and if you see the sellsword and his companions advancing by air, engage them at your earliest opportunity.”
Aggurat saluted. “As you wish, honored master.”
“You are dismissed.”
Cazuvel watched as the draconian turned and marched out of the room in rigid and disciplined steps. With the Red Watch out from under his feet and the sellsword likely defeated before he and his companions could even arrive at the castle, he could progress with his plans unhindered.
“But first,” he said to himself. “First, I must pay another visit to my dear friend in the mirror.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Vanderjack was staring at the mountains.
He had seen mountains before, of course. Every mercenary in the last war had seen mountains: the frigid peaks of the Last Gaard Mountains in Ergoth, the barren altitudes of the Khalkist Mountains in Neraka, or the windswept towers of the Kharolis Mountains in Abanasinia. Ansalon was a continent of mountains, forged in the birth of the world, or thrust up from the earth during the Cataclysm. But the Emerald Peaks of Nordmaar were like no other mountains the sellsword had ever seen.
