EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (407 page)

Waking with a start, Eydis bolted upright, body drenched in sweat and heart hammering against her ribs. It took a moment to remember where she was, that there was no undead army surrounding her, and no Asincourt seclusionary in sight. She was alone but for a few evening stars starting to twinkle in the sky and the soft snoring of the Kroadian sleeping on the other side of the dying campfire.

Lying back down, she tried to decide whether what she had witnessed was merely a vivid dream or a vision, a warning from the First Mother of events to come. One thing was certain, she decided. Whatever happened in the coming days, she would be watching this Orrick of Kroad very carefully.

Chapter VIII

V
ARIAN

V
ARIAN
SOMETIMES
HAD
VAGUE
memories of what his life was like before the master came. Dimly he recalled the mortal necessities that had once troubled him. The drive for food and sleep. The duty of tending to the dead within the tomb.

Strange that he now tended them in such a different way, he thought, beholding the creature before him. It claimed to have a name from its previous life, in which it had served the master. Naroz. But to Varian it would never be anything but a monster, in whose presence he always felt the urge to clutch the amulet dangling from him neck. The artifact had given him the power to wake Naroz from the dead and, he hoped, gave him some control over the creature still.

“What is the master’s command?” the undead grated through a row of teeth jutting like broken spikes from its rotten jaw.

Varian avoided looking at Naroz’s face, partially decayed to reveal bone beneath gray skin and muscle. The places where worms had bored trails through the flesh were enough to turn the strongest stomach. Hanks of the creature’s greasy hair writhed with vermin, and the clothing that hadn’t rotted from his broad frame was matted with the blood he had died in and the dried juices of decomposition.

Varian swallowed. “The master has assigned you a mission,” he said. “He is confident you will be eager to show your gratitude for the second life he has given you and that you will not fail him.”

The creature’s answering hiss was foul with the stench of death.

Varian rushed on. “The first step to preparing the way for the master’s return lies in the seizure of a stronghold, an old fortress converted to a seclusionary standing at the base of the dwarf mountains. He who holds that fortress possesses a powerful foothold from which to strike at both Lythnia and the dwarf kingdom of Arxus. More importantly, there is an artifact kept there that is of value to the master.”

“To hold a fortress an army is needed,” growled Naroz.

“Eventually, yes. But raising an army is not your task. Neither is seizing the seclusionary at Asincourt.”

Varian paced the length of the chamber, uneasy under the scrutiny of the undead. There was something deeply unnerving about Naroz’s eyeless gaze. Despite the two stakes driven through his sockets, the creature maintained a disturbing ability to sense motion and surroundings. Perhaps the three hounds at his feet somehow conveyed that information to him. The fiery beasts glowered up at Varian now, flames burning in their eyes, smoke seeping from noses and slavering jaws, and ears flattened atop massive heads. The ribs protruding painfully beneath their black hides suggested the animals never had and never could eat enough to sate their eternal hunger. Would Naroz stop them if they tried to devour him?

Varian shoved the thought from his mind and said, “The master has learned of an attempt to thwart his plans. A group of would-be heroes hope to prevent his seizure of the Asincourt seclusionary. He has commanded these heroes be intercepted and destroyed before they reach the baselands. The mission requires speed and stealth, a task for which you and your hunger hounds are uniquely suited.”

“It shall be as the master wishes,” grated Naroz, stretching his lips to show blackened gums. “We will hunt down these heroes.”

“Is it done?” the master asked.

Varian prostrated himself on the cold floor before Rathnakar’s throne. “Yes, Your Greatness. Naroz and his hounds have departed for the rangelands.”

The master’s satisfied laughter rumbled around the ancient throne room, echoing up to the vaulted ceiling.

They were now many levels deeper within the crypts than Varian had ever ventured in the past. To think of living and working up there all those years, unaware of the magnitude of the subterranean ruins over which the tombs were built! The Lythnian rulers and speakers of old had been arrogant, building the tombs of their kings and heroes over the crumbled palace of an older civilization, a conquered enemy. It seemed a strange irony that same enemy had risen again and once more occupied his crumbling throne room, with its cobweb-covered wall friezes and decaying tapestries.

The master interrupted his thoughts, saying, “Naroz and his hunger hounds are a match for any mortals. But we will not depend wholly on their strength and cunning. We will send reinforcements.”

“What reinforcements, Master?” asked Varian. “It was only good fortune and the power of the amulet that led us to unearth the burial vault of Naroz and his hounds so easily. You say there are enough corpses buried beneath our feet to create a formidable army of undead. An army fit for the seizure of a fortress. But the Lythnians of ancient days sealed those dark corridors and chambers, stone by stone. To open up the blocked passages and summon the undead will take time. And more energy than the amulet can quickly conduct through me.”

He didn’t speak his fear, that the amount of magic coursing through him by way of the amulet would burn him to a blackened shell. Even summoning Naroz and his fiery hounds back from the dead had been a draining experience.

The master’s eyes burned. “Do not suppose the rotting corpses beneath this tomb are the only tools at my disposal. My ancient alliance with the creatures of the Lostlands has not been forgotten. There are many still in that wild region who will answer my call.”

“But how to send out this call?” Varian queried.

The master made an impatient gesture toward the large raven perched atop the back of his throne. Obediently, the bird fluttered down to light on his gauntleted hand. There was something unnatural about the winged creature, with its glittering golden eyes. Strange to see such a wild creature living willingly underground, when most of its kind would have sought freedom above the surface. But then, most birds had not spent centuries entombed in a crypt either.

Stroking a metal-clad finger over the bird’s chest to smooth its ruffled feathers, the master said, “Death shall be our messenger. He shall carry my words to those we cannot yet reach by other means.”

It took Varian a moment to realize Death was the raven’s name.

“Go now, my winged minion,” the master ordered. “Spread your wings toward the north, to the Lostlands. And when you find the Aviads, tell them their old master has returned to the realm of the living.”

The bird blinked its bright eyes and took flight, circling the room and then soaring up toward the ceiling, where a narrow ventilation slit let in a faint gleam of light from the level above. Clearly, it knew how to escape the tombs, when it wished.

“What now, my lord?” asked Varian, as the raven disappeared from view.

“Now,” said the master, “we wait.”

Chapter IX

G
EVAREL

G
EVAREL
C
ORVINUS
HAD
KNELT
in this stiff position for so long his knees were growing numb. A line of tiny black ants had begun a bold march up the side of one of his boots, but he didn’t dare break his concentration long enough to swat them off. His whole focus was fixed on one thing. The little green shoot of a sweet-bean sprouting from the earth before him. At least, it
should
be sprouting right now. But it wasn’t. Mentally, Gevarel delved beneath the soft soil, directing a thin trickle of magic into the delicate roots. The effort from even that small amount of magical manipulation made sweat break out on his forehead and turned the dull ache behind his silver-hued eyes into a throbbing pain. He scarcely felt the discomfort, his attention riveted on the stubborn sprout. He envisioned it swelling and growing taller, new leaves unfurling from the green stem.

Grow, burn you. Grow!

But it didn’t grow. And his strength was giving out. Sighing in frustration, Gevarel let go of his magic and rocked back on his heels, contemplating the object of his failure. That stubborn little sprout seemed to sum up all the disappointment of the past few years. On angry impulse, he ripped it out by its pale hair-like roots and hurled it into the undergrowth edging the clearing.

Regret was instantaneous. What had Mentor Kesava taught him? To respect even the smallest and most insignificant forms of life. He glanced over his shoulder to be sure his mentor hadn’t seen.

But Kesava was busy a short distance away, teaching a youngling half Gevarel’s age how to form dew on the ground. Another exercise Gevarel still struggled with.

Something cold touched his knee, breaking into his line of thought. He looked down to find a sheet of frost forming over one of his boots, its icy crystals climbing up his leg.

“Sorry Gevarel,” said a black-haired female youngling, who was practicing nearby. “I was targeting that spiny shrub. I didn’t mean to freeze you.”

“It’s all right,” he said. “At least someone is succeeding.”

“Is that self-defeat I hear?” asked a sharp voice over his shoulder.

Burn him, but Mentor Kesava was as quick and stealthy as a fox when he wanted to be. How had he got here so fast?

“I’m trying my best, Mentor,” Gevarel told him, half-ashamed of the defiance in his tone but unable to crush the feeling.

“Trying at what? Trying to dwell on failure?” asked Kesava. “Trying to cultivate self-pity instead of the flora?”

Gevarel took a deep breath. The criticism wasn’t undeserved. “Why do you not give up on me, Mentor?” he asked. “Are you not satisfied by now that I’m not meant to be a Drycaenian mage? My nature magic is weak. Stunted. At nineteen summers, I’m the oldest pupil under your tutelage. Yet I’ve mastered only the most basic concepts. It is obvious I lack the talent to move on to the academy. They would never accept such a poor student.”

“The only thing you lack,” Mentor Kesava snapped, “is focus and discipline. It is your fear and defeatism that holds you back. Do not blame that on your magic.”

It was clear by the way the old man chewed his mustache that his store of patience ran low. Gevarel thought of apologizing. But his mentor was already stamping away to help the next pupil, a boy of around fourteen who was attempting to raise the temperature around a patch of bitter-berries. His efforts appeared to be wilting the plants, rather than ripening the berries, but at least he was trying. Something Gevarel had best get back to.

But before he could find another sweet-bean sprout to practice on, the peacefulness of the glade was shattered by a deep trumpeting sound.

All the younglings looked up from their exercises. “It’s a watchman’s horn,” one sandy-haired youth cried. “There must be trespassers coming this way.”

A buzz of excitement spread among the pupils, but Mentor Kesava raised his hand to quiet them. “This is no concern of ours,” he said. “The Watchers of the Wood will deal with the strangers. But I do think it would be wise if we abandoned our exercises for the rest of the day and retreated to the trees.”

But before anyone could move to follow the mentor’s orders, the sound of raised voices drifted through the trees, and a second later a pair of strangers burst out of the underbrush and into the glade.

“Would you just do as they ask Orrick?” one of them was demanding of the other. The speaker was female, a slender redhead dressed in a traveling costume of cloak, loose tunic, and green tights, with a hunting belt around her waist.

By contrast, her scowling companion was a big mountain of a man. Tall and muscular, he looked as sturdy and immovable as a tree and a good deal more dangerous. Between his size and the fairness of his hair and short beard, he seemed like a foreigner. But wherever he was from, he held the great sword in his hand as if he knew how to use it.

The two strangers had no sooner appeared in the glade than a group of Watchmen came running after them, light-staves raised and at the ready.

“You are commanded by the authority of the Watchers of the Wood to surrender your arms,” ordered the watchman whose leaf-patterned helm and breastplate marked him the captain of the troop.

The big stranger didn’t look impressed. Neither did he drop his weapon.

“I will not give up my sword to a lot of tree-dwelling stick-wielding primitives,” he growled.

His female companion urged, “But these people may be able to sell us the horses and supplies we need to make it to the baselands. Besides, as these woods are apparently riddled with Drycaenians, we’ll need their good will if we’re to pass through their lands.”

“Horses you say?” Mentor Kesava interrupted, stepping into the situation. He motioned the Watchers to lower their light-staves. They respectfully complied but kept the weapons ready.