Steel Wolves of Craedia (Realm of Arkon, Book 3) (17 page)

"Krian, commander of Steel Wolves," I introduced myself. "Will you report to Satrap Gorm about our arrival?"

"Yes, of course. I'll send a pigeon right away—you'll be met at the gates."

The tifling turned back to his troops and ordered them to clear the road. The riders all moved off to the sides, freeing up space. I thanked Torgvar and bid him goodbye, then ordered the caravan forward.

The rest of the way were spent in discussions with Schen about what exactly ought to be stored in the clan treasury, and in what quantities. The former innkeeper turned out to be quite a clever fellow who knew the prices and stock of all of Xantarra's merchants by heart, so that by the end of our conversation I was eternally grateful for having picked up such a valuable asset. The only downside was the news that all the rares we'd picked up in the princedom over the past month wouldn't fetch more than fifty gold a piece. And this despite the fact that prices for similar quality items sold for ten or even twenty times as much in the upper realm—at least that was the situation before the patch.

The truth was that I had no idea what was happening in Karn. Prices there could have likewise plummeted after the patch—the result of far fewer adventurers willing to risk feeling real pain. At any rate, I ordered Schen
not
to sell the rares. We had plenty of money, and enough junk allocated for sale to justify hiring a full-time accountant for a solid month.

Oh, how good things used to be in the games of yore! Any merchant always had an infinite reserve of money, and would buy up all kinds of stuff indiscriminately. But everything had changed in recent years. Trading in the game was still easier than in the real world, no doubt, but no longer could you unload all your trash in one fell swoop. Only resources remained an easy sale; for everything else there actually had to be a market. The upshot was, out of nearly a thousand uncommon quality items that were presently taking up space in the clan treasury, I would be glad if even a third of that ended up selling. The rest would be handed over to the clan's two enchanters for disenchanting—the process of destroying items of uncommon quality or higher while extracting ingredients needed for subsequent enchantments of weapons and armor. And they'd raise their skills in the process.

Roughly three hours after meeting up with Torgvar's patrol, the caravan passed through a fortified camp sandwiched between two tall hills, where the Xantarrian forces were awaiting the undead half-legion.

Our squad was greeted with cries of welcome. Evidently, news of the destroyed host from Suonu had already reached the soldiers, or was it that the Xantarrian and Callehzian forces enjoyed good relations? It had to be common knowledge that Elnar had stayed behind in Farot to cover the refugees' retreat, many of whom probably had family serving in the Xantarrian army.

In my layman's view, the army was around fifteen hundred strong. Most of the units were archers and infantry—I didn't see many mages or mounted troops. The soldiers were engaging in soldierly activities: some were sparring, others were cooking, others yet were simply lounging on the ground... But it was clear that the host was retreating—the first few centuries were already crawling in the direction of the city, which itself wasn't so far away.

"Dar Krian, Dar Elnar, the commander wishes to see you," said a young black-haired tifling, accompanied by two riders. Barely older than a child, with bright blue eyes and an open face, the youth's earnest attempts at being proper and serious were failing miserably, as his face was beaming a big joyous smile.

"Hello, Zach," James gave a friendly smile. "How's the old man? Fuming about being torn away from his gladiolas, I bet?"

"I didn't notice him being upset," the kid finally allowed himself to smile. "Of course, when the pigeon came from Torgvar an hour ago the legate let loose a tirade so epic his bodyguards were repeating it for the next fifteen minutes lest they forget it. Dar Krian," the tifling turned to me. "All of us here have heard of your incredible victories. The commander wishes to express his gratitude to you personally."

"Yes, of course," I issued the command for the caravan to stop. Leaving Salta in charge, James and I followed the young demon as he led the way.

Five minutes later we dismounted outside a large hexagonal tent, at the foot of which a white-and-blue banner depicting a dagger and a chalice fluttered in the wind. The meaning of the emblem was lost on me, and I thought to ask Elnar about it later on. Standing guard in front of the tent were four level 190 demons clad in a mix of plate and mail. Each wore twin blades at the waist and a mask of absolute tranquility on the face. They parted without a word, letting us through.

"Go on," the kid nodded to us. "I'll wait out here. But you owe me the story of how you pulled it off, James."

The interior of the command tent looked exactly like I thought it would. Artists and designers watched war movies like everyone else, and sometimes they just couldn't be bothered inventing anything new. A round table stood at the center with the satrapy's map laid out on top, and ten or so chairs around the table, high-backed and draped with a blue fabric. Over in the corner was a bed, a trunk, a writing desk of old cracked wood, an inkwell and an armchair. Barg dar Elias, an elderly broad-shouldered tifling with prominent features, thinning hair, bushy sideburns and a mithril chain around his neck, was alone. He rose from the desk when we entered, clasped his hands behind his back, and walked over to us.

"Well met, Krian," he nodded to me, then looked at Elnar. "Good to see you alive, James." The legate's eyes lingered on the wolf cub on my new officer's chest, and shook his head. "That is a surprise..."

"Are you judging me?" Elnar asked with defiance in his voice.

"No, just the opposite," Elias smiled. "You are alive, and the enemy isn't. Could it be that my good friend's son has finally learned to make the right decisions? Lirt would have been proud," there was a flicker of sorrow in the legate's eyes. "Oh, why am I keeping you in the doorway? Come on it, have a seat," the tifling made an inviting gesture, waited for us to find seats, then walked over to a cupboard and set the table with a bottle of the local cognac equivalent, three shot glasses and some sliced fruits. "Humor an old man, have a drink with him," he said, pouring the cognac. "We don't have much time, the satrap is waiting for you. But I need to be sure that the danger is really behind us."

It took Elnar and I some forty minutes to recount the battle of Farot. The legate asked me a million questions, clarifying the smallest details. At one point he even inquired about the sun's position in the sky at a particular moment.

When the deluge of questions finally dried out, the commander summoned two officers and issued orders regarding the army's return to the city. Then he turned back to us.

"Will the barracks be sufficient as quarters?" he asked. Then, without waiting for an answer, he continued, "I dare not delay you any longer, and we shouldn't keep Gorm waiting, either. Zach will take you to him. Thank you, Krian, for bringing us this knucklehead in one piece," he smiled warmly. "And till we meet again. I'm not bidding you farewell, for I'm starting to believe in prophecies."

"What prophecies?" I inquired politely.

"The Xantarrian library should have a book of prophecies authored by Maelissa dar Karis. I reckon the satrap won't mind you reading it. I don't remember much of it, and I'd rather not mislead you, but you should inquire about the prophecy concerning the Black Demon, the path East and the Spectral City."

"Thank you," I shook his hand goodbye, and followed Elnar out of the command tent.

The tifling youth, who had been waiting impatiently outside, hurried over to us as soon as we appeared.

"Well? Shall we go?" he asked while walking. "And you still owe me the story, James. You promised."

"I promised no such thing," Elnar objected, but then, seeing the kid's face spreading in serious dismay, corrected himself at once. "Fine, I'll tell you. Let's just get to the caravan first. By the way," he turned to me, "the legate isn't as old as you might think. In the last battle he and his bodyguards kept a whole century of enemy infantry from getting through the breach, and then he personally led a counterattack. It's a pity they didn't have much time to work with," the tifling sighed heavily and turned away.

Chapter 7

Xantarra was nestled comfortably at the confluence of Ithele and the Great Lake, with the water shielding the city on two sides. After winding through gardens and orchards, the road soon led us into an open space on the city's doorstep. It was about a half mile of scorched earth, charred trees, naked frames of houses devastated by fire... It appeared that at one time the city couldn't shelter all of its residents and was forced to expand well beyond the high walls of gray stone, and the undead army from Suonu razed all that had stood here to the ground. Or maybe the suburb had been burned on orders from above. Not that any of it mattered to me. Hundreds of farmers from the enormous refugee camp to our right were hard at work, cleaning up the debris. Wafting in from the shore were scents of fresh fish and rotting seaweed, which then mixed with smells of smoke and ash from the numerous bonfires into quite a pungent cocktail. Dozens of fishing boats scurried about, never going far from the shore; seagulls soared over the tranquil waters, diving in periodically to snatch up a careless fish.

Looming over the city walls were seven guard towers, of which the corner one also functioned as the main gate. We were allowed to enter without any questions. After passing under the massive iron bars of the raised gates, our party split—most headed off to be quartered in the Callehzian district, while James and I followed Zach in the direction of the citadel.

Xantarra was virtually identical to Laketa, the capital of Jarus Province in Ashtar. The cobbled streets sloped visibly towards the lake while being wide enough to easily accommodate two carts moving side by side. Here the same bouquet of smells was enriched with freshly baked goods, wood chippings and sun-warmed stone.

"Is the city always this clean?" I asked Zach on my right.

The youth had been riding in contemplative silence following James' account of the battle, sneaking eloquent glances my way periodically. I could sense that Zach was just itching to ask to join our clan and be off slaying undead by the droves and liberating Elnar's family castle, but something was holding him back. I had no intention of taking in the youth either, at least not yet. I was apprehensive about taking children into battle, even if those children were level 170. In fact, the reason I'd asked the question in the first place was to distract the young tifling from these unwelcome thoughts.

"Always, dar," he nodded. "Xantarra stands on a steep hill, or rather on the hillside facing the water—see how the streets all slope downward? Every time it rains all the dirt gets washed away into Indis. We get quite the current going in wintertime, during rainy season," he smiled. "But the rainwater is done pretty quickly. It's rare that the harbor gets partially flooded—the levee stands up just fine, most of the time."

"Got it. And where is your library?"

"To the right of the castle. I'll show you when we get close."

"You decided to look up the book Elias mentioned?" James said, assuming the glorious role of Captain Obvious.

"You don't think I should?" I answered with a question of my own.

"Prophecies are a murky business that may arouse more questions than answers. But it's your call—I cannot be your adviser in this matter."

"I haven't decided yet what I will do," I said, admitting to myself that he was probably right. What's the use in knowing what's going to happen if you can't change it anyway?

That was the logical argument. And then there was me. Having read a ton of books in which some enigmatic and reclusive oracle encounters the main character and reads out their fortune in a scene dripping with tension, which then empowered the hero to save the world... Well, I'd always wanted to be in the place of one such hero. And who wouldn't? Even though I knew that, alas, in the game nothing was predestined by default, and that such scenes were written purely for the injection of ambiance. More likely, the prophecy would be along the lines of, "Go left and lose your horse; go right and gain great wealth; go straight and lose the body part you typically think with when deciding which way to go." Of course, I would never know what the choices of "right," "left" and "straight" corresponded to, or even if the prophecy was really about me. But none of that mattered. I wanted to play out that scene, I wanted to be that hero. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but last I checked I had neither paws nor fur, so why not indulge myself a bit? Besides, what was the harm in reading a few pages from an old book? If there was anything there about the Black Demon, and assuming I was the Black Demon in question, it would only apply to me after I got my combat form, and not before.

The Xantarrian citadel would be fairly underwhelming if only its size were considered. But everything else about it—the sleek walls of ashen stone, the myriad gothic turrets and spires, the exquisite statues of gargoyles and chimeras—testified to the talent of the artist responsible for this masterpiece.

The castle itself sat on the lake shore and was framed by rows of peach and apple trees, in the shade of which rested clusters of marble sculptures. After bidding us a warm goodbye, Zach turned his horse around and headed off to tend to his affairs.