Straken (34 page)

He stopped to study the wreck of the
Dechtera
, catching sight of what remained of his precious weapon, a twisted hunk of blackened metal. It was all he could do to keep from screaming his rage aloud, but he was practiced at dispassion.

He was contemplating what he would do to those responsible for what had happened here tonight when Etan Orek appeared at his elbow. “My lord?” he ventured.

Sen Dunsidan glanced at him. “You see for yourself what has happened, Engineer Orek. You see how determined our enemies are.” He shook his head. “Their job is made easier by the fact that I am surrounded by incompetents. You and I, we must carry so much of the load ourselves.”

The little man nodded eagerly, happy to be included as one of the chosen. “My lord, you can always depend on me.”

Sen Dunsidan glanced at the
Dechtera
. “There is no salvaging the weapon now. We must start again. How long will it take?”

Etan Orek grinned conspiratorially. “You told me to build other weapons, my lord. I have been doing so. Another is almost complete.” He leaned close. “I have actually tested it. The crystals align as they should to generate the fire rope. It needs only to have the casing made.”

Sen Dunsidan felt a flush of satisfaction. He put a hand on the other’s shoulder. “You have done well, Engineer Orek. Once again, you have not disappointed me. If I had a dozen of you, this war would be over in a week.”

The little man flushed with pride. “Thank you, my lord.”

“How many days, then?”

“Oh, end of the week, my lord. The weapon awaits my attention in Arishaig. It needs only a few final touches and a new airship to bear it aloft.”

“Then we must spirit you back to Arishaig without further delay. I will have you returned at once. Pack up your things and make ready. I will follow in a day or two with the airship that will bear the weapon.” He gave the other a smile. “There will be a reward in this for you, Engineer. Your service to the Federation will not be forgotten.”

Flanked by two of Sen Dunsidan’s personal guards who were charged with keeping close watch over the little man until he was safely away, Etan Orek scurried off. Nothing must happen to him. Not now, not when he was so close to finishing a second weapon. Wouldn’t that be a nice surprise for the Free-born, once it was finished? They believed the danger over and done with, having destroyed the
Dechtera
. They believed him to be in possession of only a single weapon, since only the one had been used against them. They would find out soon enough how badly mistaken they were.

He took a final look around, decided there was nothing more he could do that night, and went back to his carriage. He might even be able to sleep again, he thought. At least until morning, when the Free-born attack came. He was still certain it would. Vaden Wick would take advantage of the opportunity. He would rally his forces in an attempt to break through the siege lines, to reclaim the heights lost by the Elves, and to return the Prekkendorran to a no-man’s-land.

He might even succeed. But it wouldn’t matter. Not anymore. Not once Sen Dunsidan brought up the new weapon and burned them all to cinders.

He reached the carriage and climbed inside. He was comfortably settled in place before he noticed the shadowy figure seated across from him.

“Prime Minister,” Iridia Eleri greeted in her soft, insidious voice.

He started violently, but managed to keep the gasp that rose in his throat from escaping. She was cloaked in black and so deep in the shadows of the carriage interior that she was all but invisible.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

Shades
, he thought. He exhaled sharply. “Come to gloat?”

She lifted her head slightly. “I am your personal Druid adviser, Sen Dunsidan. It is not my place to gloat. It is my place to advise. I have come to do so tonight. My sense of things suggests that you need me to do so.”

The coach lurched forward, the team of horses turning it back toward the main compound and his tent. He rubbed at his tired eyes, wishing she would simply disappear. “What sort of advice would you offer, Iridia?”

“You have lost your airship and your weapon because you wasted time on a target of no consequence,” she said quietly. “Now you will replace them with a new weapon and a new ship. Perhaps you should take this opportunity to reconsider your strategy for winning the war on the Prekkendorran.”

He studied her without speaking for a moment. Odd, how used to her strangeness he had gotten, to the peculiar way she made him feel. It bothered him still that he couldn’t define what it was about her that was so troubling, but he had gotten past his queasiness and now found her simply irksome. “My strategy?”

“It is still your intention to attack the Free-born forces on the Prekkendorran, to decimate them and thereby gain your victory,” she said softly. “You would waste your time on an effort that will prove meaningless. I have told you this before and you have ignored me. I am telling you again, except that this time I must warn you that you ignore me at your peril. You won’t get many more chances at winning this war. If you persist in trying to win it here, on this battlefield, or on any battlefield where soldiers and weapons alone are all that are at stake, the odds will catch up to you.”

He folded his arms across his chest defensively. “You want me to attack Arborlon? Is that it?”

“It is what will end the war, Prime Minister. Attack the home city of the Elves, cause damage to their homes and their institutions, take the lives of their young and old, of their sick and crippled, and you take away their heart. They will cede you your victory. They will cede you anything to get you off their doorstep. Battles fought and won far from home make no lasting impression. Lives lost mean nothing when those lives are taken in a distant place. But kill a few thousand Elves in front of the rest of the population, and it will impact them forever.”

He sighed. “We have had this discussion. I told you I would do as you advised. But I will do so when I am ready, Iridia.”

“Time slips away, Prime Minister.” Her words were a snake’s hiss in the darkness.

“Does it? Perhaps time works differently for you than for me.” He leaned forward. “I don’t know why you are so adamant about attacking Arborlon. Why not attack Tyrsis or Culhaven? Why not go after the Bordermen or the Dwarves? We’ve already smashed the Elves on the battlefield. They are no longer the strongest of the Free-born allies.”

“It is the Elves who serve as inspiration for the others. It is the Elves who promise hope in the worst of situations. In spite of the death of Kellen Elessedil, they came back to defeat you in the hills north. They broke the back of your pursuit force. Why do you think it was the Elves who attacked here tonight? Because they will give their lives willingly when they must. The other Races take note. They look to the Elves to see how they, too, must be.”

“Well, they can look to their ashes when I am through with them.
They can sift through those and see how much courage they can find to continue the fight!”

The coach rolled to a stop within the Prime Minister’s encampment. As Sen Dunsidan reached for the latch on the door, Iridia reached out and grasped his wrist, her hand as cold as ice. “Arborlon is the key to everything—”

“Enough!” he shouted at her, snatching back his wrist, repulsed by the feel of her hand on his skin. He rubbed at his wrist furiously. “You forget your place, Iridia! You are my adviser, but that is all you are! Do not presume to try to think for me! Confine your comments to suggestions and let me make the decisions!”

He threw open the door to the carriage and stalked off into the night.

T
he Moric waited until he was out of sight then climbed from the coach, as well. It stood looking off in the direction the Prime Minister had taken, thinking that Sen Dunsidan was proving to be more obstinate than anticipated. At first it had seemed a simple thing to twist his thinking in the way that was necessary. Persuade him of the need to attack the Elves on their own ground, to fly to their home city and let them discover firsthand the consequences of a war against the Federation, and the rest would be simple.

But Sen Dunsidan was a politician, first and foremost, and he constantly shifted his position to take advantage of the most favorable winds. He had rethought the matter, it seemed, and found that the attack was perhaps not to his advantage after all. He hadn’t said so, but the Moric could tell that his hesitation to act quickly and decisively was governed by his sense that in doing as his adviser had recommended he might be making a mistake. Perhaps it was the visit from Shadea a’Ru that had caused him to back away from his earlier position. Perhaps it was something else. It didn’t matter to the Moric. What mattered was that his mind had to be changed back.

The Moric breathed in the human stench, the smell of the Federation camp and its occupants, and was revolted. It was eager to have the matter over and done with. It was anxious to break down the wall of the Forbidding so that its brethren could join it and the killing could begin. It never doubted that this would happen. Superior
to humans in every way, it knew it would not fail in its efforts. It would find a way to trick Sen Dunsidan into doing its bidding, fly the fire weapon to Arborlon, turn it on the Ellcrys, and destroy the Forbidding. The Moric would do that because there was no one to stop it. No one even knew it was there, save Tael Riverine, who had sent it. By the time the truth was out, there would be no way back.

Unless the Moric made a serious mistake, which it was thinking it might have done. Perhaps its decision to depend on its ability to influence Sen Dunsidan was such a mistake.

It started walking toward the rear of the Prime Minister’s camp, back toward the wetland bog it had discovered on the first night of its arrival from Arishaig. Sen Dunsidan thought it settled somewhere within the larger Federation camp, but the Moric wanted nothing to do with humankind and its mode of dwelling. It thought fondly of its home in the swamps of Brockenthrog Weir in the world of the Jarka Ruus, steamy and fetid and rich with the smell of carrion. This world was too sterile, too clean. That would change when the demonkind reclaimed it.

It was deep in thought, paying little attention to anything around it, when the dart buried itself in its neck.

The Moric slowed, feeling the sting of the poison as it seeped into its flesh. Was the poison meant to kill it or merely to put it to sleep? Already its attackers were separating themselves from the surrounding shadows, coming toward it with knives drawn, crouched and ready. Apparently, they were determined to make certain of its demise. Or more to the point, to make certain of Iridia Eleri’s demise. She was the one they had come to kill.

The Moric swung slowly about, counting heads. Four in all, stocky and garbed in black cloaks. Dwarves, perhaps. Assassins, whatever their species. But they had misjudged their quarry. They had come to kill a human. What they had found, unfortunately for them, was a demon.

The Moric waited for them to get closer, revealing nothing of its resistance to the poison, of its ability to shrug it off as nothing more than an irritation. When the closest of them, knife extended, rushed in from behind to finish it, the Moric whipped around swiftly, took hold of the attacker’s arm, and yanked it from its socket. The attacker screamed and fell writhing on the earth. The Moric left this one
where it lay and moved on to the next, catching it as it hesitated just a moment too long. Fingers twisting tightly into the folds of its cloak, the Moric yanked it off its feet and snapped its neck with a crack that sounded like the breaking of a piece of deadwood. The other two showed courage—or perhaps only foolishness—in choosing not to flee, but to attack as a unit, coming at the Moric from two sides. A foolish, pathetic effort. The demon tore the face off the first and crushed the skull of the second, all so swiftly that the struggle was over almost before it had begun.

A quick glance around assured it that no more attackers lurked in the shadows, that four had been deemed sufficient for the job. It pulled the attacker with the ruined face to its feet. It was still alive, though barely, and the Moric licked the blood from what remained of its face. Sweet. It took a second lick, then snapped the man’s neck and threw the carcass down. One by one, it went to each of them and finished the job.

Then it took a moment to identify their species. It was surprised to discover that they were Gnomes.

Gnomes. Who would send Gnomes to kill Iridia Eleri? The answer, of course, was obvious. Finding Iridia’s presence at Arishaig and her service to Sen Dunsidan intolerable, Shadea a’Ru had decided to take a hand in matters. The men must have been good at what they did or the Ard Rhys wouldn’t have sent them. Too bad for her she didn’t realize that Iridia was long since dead and that what they were dealing with was something else entirely.

But Shadea was no fool. She would discover that her assassins had failed, and she would take a closer look at what was really going on. She was already suspicious of Iridia’s relationship with the Prime Minister. She would figure out soon enough that something about it was not right. Then she would try again, perhaps coming to do the job herself. The Moric was not afraid of her, but it did not want to become involved in a Druid feud that had nothing to do with its purpose in being in this wretched world in the first place.

What it must do, it decided as it walked away from the dead men, was to put an end to this nonsense. Its disguise had served its purpose, but it was becoming a liability. Its efforts at reaching the Ellcrys and tearing down the Forbidding were running up against obstacles it could not afford to spend time overcoming. Sen Dunsidan
was recalcitrant. Shadea a’Ru was vengeful. Everything that lived and breathed in the Four Lands was a potential danger to it. Time, especially, was its enemy.

Its mind made up, the Moric licked a dollop of blood from its fingers as it continued on to its place of sleep. It would have to do something to change things. It would have to do so soon.