Blood in the Valley Page 4

  “It will be as you wish, Mistress,” Blood-drinker replied, touching his forehead to the ground by her toes.

  “Now,” Satayebeb said, twitching her foot back from proximity to the hobgoblin’s knobby skull, “if you would see to that and to preparing the horde for attack after the wall is broken, my consort and I will retire. Summon me only when these things are complete.”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  Satayebeb parted the curtains of the tent entrance and disappeared through them. Lonadiel followed. Within, the interior seemed bare, much of the finery that had crowded it when Lonadiel first entered it left behind when the horde began its move north—and probably thoroughly plundered, if Lonadiel judged his new allies correctly. The central chamber had some of its previous trappings, particularly the piled pillows, into which Satayebeb slid with a languid smile. Lonadiel saw to his relief none of the shadow-things that had attended his Mistress upon their first meeting, but darkness quivered in corners and folds of tent-fabric, seemed to watch him in mocking silence.

  “In awhile, I would like something to eat,” Satayebeb said. “After ages suspended in the Vortex beyond this world, I’d forgotten the joys of material sustenance, but also the bother of keeping this form supplied. I’m famished.”

  “I can see to that now.”

  “No.” She grinned and crooked a finger at him. “Come to me, my love. I have other needs first.”

  Lonadiel felt the pull of that gesture and the hungry gaze of the eyes flickering behind it. His unbuckled his sword belt and let it clatter the ground behind him as he stepped over her. She drew him into a ferocious kiss, terrifying for the lust behind it, that sensation he’d felt before; that he would be devoured. Fingernails stripped away his tunic, loosened the ties of his road-worn hose and probed below into the tight near-agony of his quickened passion.

  She halted his drive to couple, cruelty making her smile ugly as she forced him back, breathing hard and quivering. “You wonder about the Temple and why I won’t reduce it as I intend to reduce the walls.”

  “I...yes, I did,” Lonadiel replied between hoarse breaths.

  “It’s the aura of Reniburn, still hanging about this place, this crude, little settlement He was apparently so fond of,” she explained. “My power is not yet what it must be to confront that.” She looked into his eyes and he sensed her inside him again, flitting about his thoughts, even as he struggled against irrational fear to tear himself away from her gaze. “Now you wonder what limits my power has and, again, if you should fear.”

  “I do not fear,” Lonadiel insisted.

  “Oh, you do,” she growled, fingernails digging into shoulders as her irises lit crimson. She relaxed the grip after a moment. “But to your credit, your doubts aren’t completely conscious.” She drew him to her breast and whispered into his ear, “Only you must know of this. As I have said before, I am not yet complete. Here on this plane of existence, I am vulnerable. Though my powers grow and will soon rival the most deranged fantasies of wizards, I can still be killed, like any mortal. Until I am complete, you must allow none to touch me.”

  Lonadiel pulled back to look into her eyes. “Is that why I’m here, Mistress? To defend you?”

  She shrugged and kissed him on the neck. “That...and what you can give me.” She dragged him down onto her. “What you will give me now.”

  Lonadiel surrendered himself to her; let her take of his body, losing his doubts in the terrifying pleasures of being the Consort to Hell.

  GROON BLOOD-DRINKER strode through his clan’s campsite to the huge, plunder-festooned yurt at its center that he claimed as his. Warlike blood scalded through his veins with every step. Rage foamed the lips around his protruding canines. His own kind saw the blaze of his piggish, yellowy eyes and recoiled, knowing only a fool would interrupt his course.

  Of course, one did.

  “You don’t speak up?” Brathug Foulstench bleated at his heels. “How? That he-elfling fills the air with his stink!”

  Groon ignored the goblin only with effort. In an earlier time—one before the coming of the Lady and Her call to conquer—he’d already have cut the creature’s head from his shoulders. With underlings scattering from his path, he stepped into the clearing before his tent. Only two hobgoblins dared remain, seated before the fire there. The first and far larger specimen stood, even more massive than Groon and scarred from knobby head to filth-encrusted toes—Vraka, chief lieutenant by dint of his brutishness and being just dim enough to always follow orders.

  The second didn’t bother to rise, only looked up with rheumy, vaguely manical eyes. A weird half-smile crinkled his fanged visage. The weird ornaments of a shaman—finger bones and dried batwings and other foul minutiae—draped from his grey-streaked hair, clattered from his leather vest. Where Vraka emoted violence, this one, Akrak, reeked of sorcery and madness and several months without bathing.

  “He should get a blade in the back!” Foulstench raged on. “Deadly One, we can’t allow that pointed-eared meat puppet to—”

  Groon whirled into a backhanded blow that sent the goblin flying halfway across the clearing.

  Howls and the ring of drawn steel filled the air. Goblinoids of every clan and sub-species clamored to the disturbance, crowded around the clearing with curses and shaken weapons. The Foulstenches, seeing their chieftain sprawled and bleeding, seethed and threatened, a few of the cowards even edging into the open space and brandishing their spears. Their jeers were met with the puffed chested and naked blades of the glowering Blood-drinkers, who shivered right on the edge of massacre.

  “We do not question the Dark Lady!” Groon boomed.

  Brathug squirmed back to his feet like a greenish spider recovering after a hard knock from its web. “Not question—”

  “What then?” Groon roared. “She is the One Spoken Of, is She not?” He glanced at Akrak, who nodded, then back at Brathug. “Is She not?”

  The Foulstench chieftain spat blood from split lips. “She is.”

  “Then we speak no more of it, cur!” Groon set a hand upon the hilt of his sword. “Or I will speak of you to Her.”

  A twitter of fear went through the goblins and a grumble of unease through their larger kin. Brathug flinched and held up both his hands, hunched low. “There...is no need, Deadly One.”

  “And there’s no need for you to be standing there,” Groon snapped. “Get out of my sight!” He glowered around at the mob of onlookers. “All of you!”

  Vraka bowed and began to go with the others, though Akrak made no move to get up from his cross-legged position before the fire.

  “Not you,” Groon said to the massive slayer. He glanced at the shaman. “Not you, either.” He stepped to the yurt and pulled back its front flap. “Inside.”

  The three stepped into the gloom and Groon drew the tent closed behind them. Within, a lone candle guttered low in a holder improvised from an upside-down human skull. Its feeble, ruddy light cast all their features in sinister shadows.

  “That goblin filth-bag isn’t wrong,” Groon rumbled at his compatriots.

  “We do not question the Dark Lady,” Akrak said mockingly.

  Groon scowled at him. “Watch that tone, crotch-licker! I might have a mind to cut your head off again!”

  Akrak tilted his head back and cackled. The motion revealed the rope of scar tissue around his throat where Groon’s blade had cleaved windpipe and spine and sent that wild-haired skull flying after he’d tired of the shaman’s ravings. Of course, it served as a reminder that Akrak’s decapitated body had then proceeded to get up and retrieve its head shortly after that blow. That head reaffixed to its place atop the shaman’s shoulders had then proclaimed the coming of the Lady, and Groon’s place in that great destiny.

  “It disturbs,” Vraka agreed with an uneasy glance at Akrak. “An elf stands at the side of Satayebeb. How can that be?”

  Akrak shrugged as his laughter cut out with a snort and he wiped drool from his lips. “The Dark Whore of
Final Filth, she is. What webs she weaves are not for us to decipher.” He raised his eyebrows at Groon. “Not even you, Deadly One.”

  “I’ve led the Blood-drinkers from the Magocracy of Glittra, over the Labyrinthine Mountains, to the gates of the Valley,” Groon snarled. “I didn’t come all that way to take orders from some mewling elf he-bitch!”

  “They are Her orders,” Akrak replied softly, but with menace.

  “And if that’s all the help you’re going to be” Groon spat at the shaman’s feet “you can get out of here!”

  Akrak smirked and bowed in a manner that could not be called obedience. He backed out of the yurt with a chortle that continued to mock, long after it faded.

  Groon stepped close to Vraka, gripped his tree-bough thick arm as he whispered, “He cannot be trusted.”

  “This is not new,” the other hobgoblin said.

  “No. But being asked to tolerate elf-flesh in our midst is.” He released him. “Pick out a couple of your best skulkers. I want that pretty-boy watched.”

  “I can do that,” he said with a hint of hesitation.

  “She may be the Dark Whore of Final Filth, but I’ve been killing wizards and elves and men since I could walk and I will be dead before I turn my back on one of his kind, Favored by Satayebeb or not!”

  Vraka bowed and Groon gave thanks that his underling was so dim as to not see the insubordination—aye, blaspheme, even—of which he’d agreed to be a part.

  “And, Vraka,” Groon added. “The elfies have never been known for courage. This one’s squishiness will be show itself in time. When it does” he blowered into the other’s eyes “make certain a blade is ready to be in his gut!”

  Chapter Three

  Departures

  Vohl strode up the boarding ramp of the River Imp with his pack slung over a shoulder. He felt the eyes of the crew on him, paused in their work and exchanging uneasy glances with one another. Vohl let the pack drop by the afterdeck cabin with a crash and turned to regard them by the poor light of lanterns suspended from the lateen yard. None would meet his eyes, not even Tev, the First Mate—but Captain of the vessel in all but name—seated on the starboard gunwale and gnawing on a wad of spiceweed.

  “Make ready to leave,” Vohl said hoarsely.

  “Think that’s wise, Master Rhenn?” Tev asked in a hesitant voice.

  “Do what I say,” Vohl replied.

  “Will it mean trouble with the authorities?”

  Vohl held back a snarl, knew he could not just roar at these lads after all they’d already suffered through for him. “If there is,” he said, “it will only be trouble for me.”

  Tev spat a jet of spiceweed juice over the side and stood with a shrug. “As you wish, sir.”

  Vohl took the other man’s spot at the gunwale while Tev roused the crew into action, the deck creaking under their feet, cranks squalling as they lofted the yard and eased oars into position. The dark of Lake Remordan glittered with the light of candles and torches passing amongst beached galleys, barges, and smaller craft. Voices echoed softly across the surface, barely heard over the lap of ripples against the Imp’s hull. A gentle breeze carried the scent of night-cooled air and fishy-water tang and Vohl breathed deep of it, let out a sigh.

  I wanted none of this, he told himself. I never asked to get involved again. I just wanted my life as my own. Well...now I’m going to take it back.

  Heavy footsteps thudded up the boarding ramp at Vohl’s back and he could sense the crew stilling at the new arrival. Oh, great. Vohl sighed again and turned to face Muddle.

  “After all that talk of friends,” the half-breed rumbled, “and now you’re ready to just slip away in the night.”

  “Spare me,” Vohl snarled. “We’ve done everything that was asked of us. All that’s left here is Vennitius’ politics.”

  “That doesn’t mean we’re not still needed,” Muddle said, striding across the deck to stand right before Vohl, towering over him like a memory of Vohl’s father, during one of his lucid moments between drinking bouts. “What about Dodso?”

  “Dodso can take care of himself,” Vohl replied. “Hell, he got himself into this.”

  “The same could be said of us.” Muddle crossed his arms before his chest. “We didn’t have to stop at Edon Village. We didn’t have to come along when the Imp was commandeered for the expedition.”

  “And we don’t have to stay here now, do we?” He gestured eastward into the dark across the lake. “Gods, Muddle! We’ve got businesses to run.”

  “So do a lot of the men stuck here.” He snorted. “You’re telling me you don’t think Daneah and Teelee can handle the tavern for a few weeks more?”

  “Yeah, well, what if they can’t?”

  Muddle shook his head in disgust.

  “I’m done with this, Muddle,” Vohl said, sudden desperation making his voice a near-squeak. “If we stay any longer, we’ll just get dragged in further and further. Is that what you want?”

  “Friends are worth that, you told me.”

  Vohl opened his mouth to reply, then let it slip into a playful grin, instead. “Aren’t you the one who’s supposed to talk me out of crazy ideas?” He reached out to give his partner a mocking shove.

  Muddle stepped back from the gesture, looking away from him with a scowl. “All this over a girl...”

  A flush seared upwards over Vohl’s face. He bared his teeth, furious as if he’d just been slapped. “That’s got nothing to do with it!”

  “The hell, it doesn’t.” Muddle shook his head. “I don’t understand, Vohl; you’ve had plenty of women. Damnation, you’ve got plenty of girls in Eredynn! Why pine after one chilly half-elf?”

  “I said she has nothing to do with this!” Vohl barked, self control burning away as he thrust his face into the half-breed’s.

  “You can lie to yourself all you want, Vohl,” Muddle replied, glowered down on him, “but don’t waste it on me.”

  Vohl balled up his fists, trembling. At the red-tinged corners of his vision he was vaguely aware of Tev and the crew frozen as they watched the confrontation.

  “You want to hit me?” Muddle asked with a hint of murderous glee. “If you want to try it, you know you’ll be drinking lake water before a single blow lands.”

  With a force of will, Vohl unknotted his fists and fought his breathing down to normal. “I don’t need to hit you,” he said. “Get out of here!”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “Maybe I do,” Vohl spat back. “You’ve never had a problem with the way I’ve done things before; if you don’t like it now, you can beat feet!”

  Muddle leaned over him and for a moment, Vohl thought he might have to endure the pummeling the half-hobgoblin had threatened. But tension eased in the corners of the brute’s demonic face, the quivering of his batwing ears ceased. He turned and strode towards the boarding ramp, calling over his shoulder, “I should put you in the lake. The chill might help you sort your mind out!”

  “Go to hell!”

  “You don’t mean that,” Muddle repeated as he strode down the boarding ramp and off into the dark.

  Vohl watched until his mountainous back had disappeared then turned and kicked the gunwale with a curse. He became aware of the crew, still staring, and bawled, “What are you fools looking at? You’re wasting my gold, just standing there! Get back to work!”

  Tev hollered at the lads and the preparations resumed. Vohl turned away, put one foot up on the gunwale and leaned his weight onto his thigh. Muddle...damn him...I didn’t expect resistance there. What has gotten into everyone?

  Vohl looked out into the dark of the lake, murmured a superstitious prayer of his late mother’s to ward off bad luck. Unbidden, an image of Dodso came to him, the diminutive politician and trouble-maker seated alone in his tent, staring across maps, the candlelight playing hollowly in forlorn eyes. Alone. Damn...

  Another image came, the Ythengar Steppes in another lifetime, the Legions staggering home after l
eaving half their number to doom. He’d been barely a kid, then, trapped in a man’s nightmare. Muddle had stood at his side, as Ythengetti raiders whittled the Thyrrian ranks down, day after day. Muddle hadn’t left it much, since.

  Vohl winced the memory away and smote the gunwale repeatedly to deaden the visions. Damn! Damn! Damn, them all!

  “Master Rhenn?” Tev called quietly at his back.

  Vohl spun and strode past the First Mate to the boarding ramp. Tev called after him again and Vohl halted. “What?” he asked without looking at the man.

  “Do we...wait for Master Muddle’s return?”

  Vohl looked down along the beach line, noticed a small galley hoisting its lateen and making ready to go. “No,” he said finally, “you wait for mine.”

  He tromped down the ramp and into the night.

  JAYCE SAT IN THE FITFUL scrub brush above the shore of the lake, regarding the small galley, Remordan Flitter, in the nether light of lanterns and torches by the beach. Its crew unloaded barrels of wine and sacks of hard biscuit and salted pork for the troops. The ship’s deck was almost cleared. The time to leave hovered near.

  And yet...it was with the feeling of something left undone.

  His attempts at meditation, at sampling the currents of the Cosmos had repeatedly failed of late. A pall of things insettled hung over all thought, just as humidity hung through the Valley after the weeks of rain. Jayce’s thoughts returned again to that wizard, the rogue Verraxian he’d faced at Graystone Glade, who’d taken on the identity as some risen barbarian god, Ango Morug.

  He knew me, Jayce remembered, knew my real name. Osepu Zerro’Isutep. Jayce couldn’t help a grimace as the memory of his old self wormed through his thoughts. He’d left that all behind. He’d thought the Remordan Valley, as remote a place as you could find in the remote Thyrrian Empire, the last spot anyone would look to find him.