Blood in the Valley Read online

  The moment after the conflagration was almost still, crackling with sparks and new flame, almost loud in its absence of noise.

  Something crashed off Jayce’s shoulder. Pain roared and blood greased down his arm. The glow about his hands faded as a grunt of pain tore from his lungs. Whatever had struck had the weight of the material world, not sorcery. Impact shivered him, wobbled him about. He caught the glimmer of water, below, though the trees, lurched towards it. His boots caught in mud, splashed up to the knees into the murk of the Aleil. With a last lurch he plunged into the river.

  Cold darkness took him in its current and carried him away.

  GROON COULD STILL FEEL the magical onslaught prickling across the flesh of his back as he crawled back to his feet from where he’d dived. Looking around, he beheld trees and saplings smoldering at chest-high, where the blast had severed them. Smoldering bits were still clattering down around him, and the air burnt the lungs with its ozone stink.

  “On your feet and after him!” the chieftain roared.

  Howls of fury greeting his order and Blood-drinkers rose from the ground or poured through the woods from further back. They rushed by him, gibbering for blood, for vengeance. He saw Vraka sprinting into the lead, foaming at the mouth with what could either be fear-frenzy or just plain fear. No small number of the clan had gotten caught in the sorcerous blaze and writhed now, smoking in the dirt.

  Splashes down by the river and cries of frustration sent rage clenching through Groon. Barks of fury and the ring of metal gave him a moment of hope. But the flash of steel through the trees and the meaty thump of slack figures to the ground showed them to be the result of his hobgoblins crashing into the undead in the gloom. Fear or unspent energy exploded in flurries of violence against the unthinking, rotten things.

  “He’s getting away,” Groon growled at Akrak. “The wizard’s getting away! All your loud fireworks and you couldn’t even—”

  Turning to the shaman, Groon found Akrak still standing, but his body from the shoulders up seared away, neatly, as though by a white-hot knife. As Groon watched, the single strand of sinew still holding an arm to the torso snapped and dropped it to the ground. As though all the sinews failed in that moment, the rest of Akrak crumpled in a smoldering pile.

  The shaman’s head lay, mostly intact, and grinning at him, propped lopsidedly against a tree trunk.

  Groon waited, tensed. But this time, it seemed, there was no additional sorcery that would propel the body to pull itself back together, as it had done months ago when the call of Satayebeb had first come to them through Akrak. No motive force would put that head back on those shoulders.

  Akrak’s usefulness, it seemed, had run out.

  For the first time, Groon wondered if the same would prove true for him.

  Spitting once to clear bile from his mouth, Groon turned and started downhill after his Blood-drinkers. By the sound of the ringing, howling din, if someone didn’t rally and reorganize them soon, there’d be a full-on battle between hobgoblin and undead shortly.

  And he wouldn’t seem terribly useful if that happened.

  ILLAH SLIPPED THROUGH the roused horde, staying close to the trees as she skirted the bowl, evading packs of goblins and the larger, foul-smelling shapes of giants and trolls as they wandered from their campfires to watch the sky to the north shudder with magic. Whatever drama Jayce was playing out, it was having a desirable affect: all eyes missed a single Yntuil, slipping close to the pavilion, goblinoid gibbering and excitement masking momentary gurgles and squeaks of pain as her steel drew across windpipes or pierced the spines of distracted sentinels.

  Nearing the pavilion, she slowed, muscles quivering as the hot breeze of malice coming from the shelter touched her flesh. She dropped prone and slid under a billowing fern as a pair of goblins approached, snarling to one another in their crude tongue. She waited as their poorly-shod feet passed and rose again from the shadows. A trio of the bandy-legged brutes sat about a fire near the entrance to the tent, tossing the scraps of their meal to a troll slurping at bones that might have been human. She drifted towards the tent pegs on the far side of the shelter from them and knelt.

  Setting down her saber, Illah drew a curved knife and put the point to the stretched hide, drilling a small hole. Crimson light shafted through the opening and she leaned close, put her eye to it.

  Within, the air hung smoky from dozens of candles, their light glittering across piles of plunder, weapons, armor and trinkets from the defeated Legion. Symbols had been drawn in the flaking brown of dried blood on the walls, their meaning unknowable but giving rise to bile in the back of Illah’s throat. She knew she was seeing a shrine to darkness.

  Footsteps squished through the mud to Illah’s right. She withdrew into the trees ringing the pavilion, deliberately leaving her saber. One of the goblins strolled around from the front. It paused to undo the ties of its crude leggings then stiffened, yellowy gaze going to the weapon. It knelt to pick it up.

  Illah swept around behind the creature, clenched its shoulder, and slashed her knife across its throat. It shivered as jets of its blood painted the side of the pavilion. She held it tight until its struggles subsided and eased the body soundlessly to the ground. A glance over her shoulder ensured its comrades hadn’t been alerted and she returned to the peep-hole. One more look revealed nothing more and she nudging a toe under the stretched hide. It didn’t resist and she was able to draw it up. Sheathing the knife and taking up her saber again, she dropped low and crawled under into the tent.

  Flashing back to her feet with the weapon held ready, Illah scanned her surroundings.

  Other than the horde’s booty, an altar of sorts had been erected on the small room’s far side, improvised from a battered chest encrusted with jewels and silver worked into images of gaped-mouthed skulls. Its blackened, buckled wood had been stained in blood and glistening loops of entrails draped over its sides. A single candle of black wax burned on its top, its flame dancing with a deep crimson that called her eyes to it, demanded she stare into its horrid shimmer. She tore her gaze away, shivering at the unholy aura of this place. Her eyes noted a curtain flap in the partition wall.

  Whatever lay beyond there was the heart of this horror.

  Illah crossed the room, each step a battle against the choking pall of wickedness. Honed senses, training, and instinct screamed alarm at her as she raised her saber and draw the curtain back with its point. More red brilliance spilled forth, as did a heat reeking of foulest sorcery.

  It’s gone too far to turn away now. Illah lurched through the doorway and swept into the inner chamber with her saber ready.

  A half naked woman of surpassing, dark beauty waited within, leaned back against piled pillows with a crooked smile on cruel, black-painted lips. Candlelight shimmered across her pale skin and smoldering braziers clouded the air in caustic haze. Hellfire danced in half-lidded eyes as she drew a hand casually across blonde hair.

  “Ilanahl Aloicil,” the woman said. She gestured at her saber. “I don’t think you’ll need that.”

  Illah felt the voice in her head as if it were her own, commanding her to lower her weapon. A strange dreaminess clouded her vision and she vaguely noticed her muscles relaxing, her saber dipping towards the carpeted floor. She gave herself a violent shake, knowing now she stood in the presence of that which had birthed so much fear and misery. The saber came back up and she edged towards the creature that could be no woman.

  “I am Yntuil,” Illah said hoarsely, “and I don’t answer to the likes of you.”

  “I know what you are,” the thing said and rose from its pillows, shaking out a black cloak behind it like the wings of a bat. “But allow me the pleasure of introducing myself. I am Satayebeb.”

  Illah froze at the name. The Yntuil had long catalogued the horrors that strode the realms beyond the material world. What this woman-thing claimed to be figured prominently amongst them.

  “Yes,” Satayebeb hissed. “You know somet
hing of me, then.”

  “I know you have come a long way, Spawn of Filth, only to be sent back.”

  Illah lunged for the demon with her saber raised. Something moved out of the shadows to her left. She pivoted, hearing steel drawn from a sheath. Her saber cleaved a low arch across the hazy air that would disembowel. But its edge crashed against a readied sword and locked hilt-to-hilt. Illah snarled and leaned against the attack, looking up into her assailant’s face.

  Lonadiel looked back.

  No...

  Illah’s strength shriveled in an instant. It was Lonadiel and yet not, a pale, emaciated face, twisted and creased in a maniac grin that bore no resemblance to her former comrade’s. She leapt away, backpedaling as he came on. Satayebeb followed at his flank with a smirk.

  Oh gods, no...

  “Do not fight, Illah,” Lonadiel said. “It will be so much better for you if you don’t.”

  “Lonadiel...” the name left Illah’s throat in a croak. “This cannot be...gods, please, it cannot...”

  He advanced but lowered his weapon, held out a hand. “Don’t look at me that way, love. I’m happy now. Do I look like I suffer?”

  She shook her head, tears pouring from her eyes, clouding the vision of him with the horrible thing at his side. Everything in her told her to run or fight or spit in his face.

  “I have discovered an amazing thing, Illah. Would you like to hear about it?”

  “No...”

  “Yes, you would. The Elders of Mauvynn, the Grand Masters of the Yntuil, all of them lied to us. I always suspected. That is why they feared me. That is why they sent me out into the wilderness, demoted, distrusted.” He clenched a fist and shook it before her, his eyes beginning to take on the same glow that simmered in Satayebeb’s. “They did not want us to discover the truth: that there are other paths, that there are other ways to live!”

  Enough willpower remained in Illah to raise her saber before her again. “This is not life! You are a dead thing, pulled from the darkness by this abomination! You are not Lonadiel! You cannot be!”

  She lunged at him. With contemptuous ease, he batted the thrust away. She swung again, blade singing towards his neck. He ducked the stroke and launched a kick, the iron-shod toe of his boot blasting into the back of her left knee, folding it like a rusty hinge. She staggered to the floor but swung a third time. He caught the blow on his sword and ground her down. One hand released his sword grip and caught her wrist, squeezing till she felt the bones creak and her fingers opened to let the saber fall.

  “I think we’ll have to talk about this when you’re in a better mood,” he said in a conversational tone.

  He raised his now-free sword and brought it down, pommel-first, cracking onto her skull. Lightning cascaded through her brain and Illah fell screaming into darkness.

  Chapter Six

  Nightmares Realized

  The Expeditionary Force left the western banks of Lake Remordan at dawn in a haze of drizzle, banners sagging and heads held low, more like a defeated refugee band than the army that had crushed the barbarian uprising. Behind, they left the contingents of Dinalol, Graystone, and Koen, grumbling and glad to see them go.

  The rain and overcast broke near midday, allowed sun through to dry drooping sails, a gentle breeze billowing in their canvas and giving the little fleet some speed to run before. Some of the smaller ships got ahead of the rest, cutting white wakes in their haste to reach home. The River Imp rode at the lead.

  Vohl sat near the bow, Muddle reclined nearby under a blanket beaded with moisture and tearing the air with explosive snores. Dodso, conspicuously absent from the Remordan Queen and the Legion contingent—among whom he was probably not a current favorite—sat with his arms folded around his knees, glumly eyeing the sky.

  Vohl glanced aft, took in the motley crew crowding the deck. In addition to the thinned Edon Village contingent, the centaurs had taken a berth with the Imp, the massive Taul Rising-Gale and some of his folk with Vohl, the remainder of their kind, females, babes and all, scattered amongst other craft.

  “Gods and Saints, they take up a lot of room,” Vohl said to Dodso.

  “Hmm? Oh. Yes, they do.”

  “And the sanitation issues...” Vohl shook his head and smiled. “Tev and the crew are having a fit.”

  “I couldn’t turn them away,” Dodso replied with a hint of temper. “The gods know what awaits us in the east.”

  “Do you have any idea why they came?”

  Dodso shrugged. “Rising-Gale said something about their elders seeing it as ‘the way’, or some other nonsense like that.” He cast a look at the centaurs. “I think they want a way out of the Valley.”

  “There’s a lot of that going around.”

  Dodso met Vohl’s gaze. “You’re talking about yourself?”

  Vohl looked away then shook his head. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “And I thank you for that,” Dodso said. “But you didn’t answer the question.”

  Muddle’s snoring had stopped and Vohl knew the light-sleeping brute was listening. “No, I’m not thinking of that.” He chuckled humorlessly. “I’ve too many friends.”

  Dodso managed a weary smile. “I’m glad for it.”

  Vohl let the silence drag, listening to the creak of the yards and the splash of the lake against the hull. Muddle’s snoring resumed. The afternoon dragged on, the skies clearing to a bowl of wispy blue. Vohl scanned the horizon, noted the vague smear of smoke that hinting at the hearths of Eredynn. Its walls and spires would become visible soon. Landfall would follow another hour beyond that.

  “What are you planning, once we return?” Vohl eventually asked.

  Dodso stood up and stretched. “I don’t know, yet,” he replied. “But I think I’m in trouble.”

  “There’s something new.”

  “At least I’m a hero,” the gnome said with a touch of his old bravado. “Let’s see Vennitius deal with that.”

  Muddle roused, sat up, and yawned. He offered Vohl a toothy grin before taking to his feet with a crackle of loosening sinews. He stepped to the port gunwale, undid his fly and began to urinate, letting out an exaggerated groan.

  “Vennitius will have some scheme waiting for you,” Vohl said to Dodso, trying to ignore his partner.

  “I have no doubt,” Dodso replied, wrinkling his nose at Muddle. “But I was appointed Commander of the Expedition, and that should allow me some leeway in my interpretation of our orders.” He grinned broadly. “A Speaker has some knowledge of the ins-and-outs of Imperial Law. I’ll have my say before the Assembly.”

  Doing his trousers back up, Muddle grunted and nodded eastward. “That’s a lot of smoke.”

  “It’s just—” Vohl turned to follow his partner’s gaze.

  Against the clear sky, tendrils of black stood out, more rising to the southeast, spreading along the horizon. Vohl stood, Dodso at his side, his innards knotting. He remembered Jayce’s words to him and the coppery tang of fear rose in his throat. He looked up to the crow’s nest and hollered, “You there!”

  The boy manning the lookout shook the whole mainmast with a shuffle. His youthful face looked down.

  “Asleep on the job, lad?” Vohl barked. He gestured east. “What is that out there? Can you see?”

  The boy put a hand up to shield his eyes then stiffened. “Fires, sir!”

  “We can tell that!” Vohl shouted back. Around them the ship stirred to life. Tev was striding towards the bow. “Can you see what’s happening?”

  A pause. “I see ships, sir!”

  Tev joined them, leaning out over the prow, features pinching as he scanned the horizon. “Sure enough; dozens of them.”

  “You’d better bring in the sails and run out the oars,” Vohl said to the First Mate. “And get someone on the signal lantern, warning the other ships.”

  The clang of bells echoed across the water. Tev smiled at Vohl. “Looks like they’re already aware. I’ll make the Imp ready.” He spun and st
alked aft, barking orders.

  “By the gods,” Dodso breathed, “they’re already at Eredynn.”

  “Easy. We don’t know that.”

  But as the River Imp cut across the lake and the rise of Eredynn became prominent against the deepening blue of the sky, the glimmer of fires chased away all doubt. A swarm of ships spread before the approaching fleet. Banners of Valley towns fluttered amongst the jockeying masts. But smaller craft scuttled amongst the larger hulls and panicked cries carried across the water. As Vohl watched, a light galley flying the colors of Andenburgh was rammed by a trio of what appeared to be skiffs crowded with small shapes that threw boarding lines and began to scuttle up over the beleagured craft’s sides.

  “I think you’re going to need this,” Muddle said, pressing Vohl’s sword into his hand.

  Vohl took the weapon, noting that his partner had his axe shouldered, fingers playing about the handle as his eyes lit at the promise of action. Vohl unsheathed the blade, throwing a glance at Dodso, who stood pale-faced, watching the drama play out across the lake in dawning horror.

  Fire burst to life on the deck of the Andenburgh galley and clashing steel joined inhuman howls of glee and shrieks of very human fear. Tev struck the kettle-drum, starting up the cadence for the oarsmen and giving some respite from the sounds of doom. The River Imp picked up speed, some of the other Expeditionary Force ships straining to catch up.

  “Goblins,” Vohl spat in disgust.

  The bay of Eredynn was lousy with them, the brutes crowded aboard obviously-stolen fishing boats, knocking one another off in their excitement to come to grips with the civilian ships. Others came on aboard skiffs improvised from tied-together logs. Even more paddled atop hacked-down tree trunks, wreckage, and driftwood. Many have to be drowning, Vohl thought, shocked at the reckless disregard for life. But like insects, there were so many more to take their place.