The route through the outcropping mountains led up a long ridge-line, through a narrow notch and then down into the deep gorge of a turbulent stream that had gnawed at the rock for eons.
King Androl was breathing a bit heavily when he crested the ridge-line and led his forces through the notch. The wasted hours spent conferring with Ambassador Norkan had taken off Androl’s edge. A warrior should never permit himself to be lured away from the practice-field or the exercise yard. He picked up the pace as he led his army down into the narrow gorge, running smoothly along the south bank of the rushing mountain river. If he was out of shape, his soldiers probably were as well. He hoped that he could find a suitable place for an encampment at Lake Sarna, a proper encampment with enough space for training and practice and those necessary calisthenics that honed warriors to the peak of fitness. Androl was sublimely confident that any opposing force could be overcome if only his army were fully trained and fit.
‘Androl-King!’ General Pemaas shouted over the sound of the turbulent stream. ‘Look!’
‘Where?’ Androl demanded, half-turning and reaching for his sword.
‘At the top of the gorge – on the right!’
The Atan King craned his neck to peer up the sheer cliff-face to the rocky brink high above.
The King of Atan had seen many things in his life, but nothing to compare with the vast, monstrous form rearing suddenly above them on the rim of the gorge.
The thing was glossy black, like polished leather, and it had enormously out-spreading wings, jointed and batlike. Its wedge-shaped head was accentuated by blazing eye-slits and a gaping mouth that dripped flame.
King Androl considered it. The problem, of course, was the fact that the towering creature was at the top of the gorge while he stood at the bottom. He could turn and retrace his steps, running back up the gorge to the notch and scrambling around the rocks to reach the rim; but that would give the thing plenty of opportunity to run away, and then he would have to chase it down in order to kill it. In his present less-than-perfect condition, that would be very tedious. He could always climb up the cliff, but that would still take time, and the creature might very well see him coming and try to flee.
Then, amazingly, the large being at the top of the gorge provided the solution. It raised its enormous arms and began to slash at the top of the cliff with what appeared to be fire of some kind.
Androl smiled as the cliff-face began to topple outward, tumbling and roaring down into the gorge. The silly beast was accommodatingly providing the means for its own destruction. How could it be so stupid?
King Androl adroitly dodged a tumbling, house-sized boulder, carefully assessing the rapidly growing slope of rubble piling up at the base of the cliff.
The beast actually intended to attack! Androl laughed with delight. The creature was stupid beyond imagining, but he did have to give it credit for courage – foolish courage, of course, but courage nonetheless. All the universe knew that Androl of Atan was invincible, and yet this poor dumb brute meant to pit its puny strength against the greatest warrior since the beginning of time.
Androl looked speculatively at the steep, growing slope of rubble, ignoring the cries of those of his soldiers not nimble enough to avoid being crushed in the avalanche rumbling down upon them. Almost high enough now. Just a few more feet.
And then he judged that the steep slope had grown high enough to give him access to the stupid creature roaring and flapping its wings high above. He dodged another boulder and began his rush, scrambling, dodging, leaping, as he swiftly mounted toward the doomed beast above him.
When he was almost to the top, he paused, drew his sword, and set himself.
And then with a savage war-cry he rushed up the remaining slope, ignoring the momentary flicker of sympathy he felt for the brave, misguided creature he was about to kill.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ a burly Dacite wearing a shabby uniform tunic and holding a long pike demanded as Sparhawk and Kalten pulled the wobbly cart with two large barrels in it around the corner of the building.
‘We’ve got a delivery from Senga for Master Krager,’ Kalten replied.
‘Anybody could say that.’
‘Go ask him,’ Kalten suggested.
‘I wouldn’t want to disturb him.’
‘Then you’d better let us past. He’s been waiting for this wine for quite some time now. If you keep us from delivering it, he’ll really be disturbed. He might even be disturbed enough to take the matter to Lord Scarpa.’
The guard’s face grew apprehensive. ‘Wait here,’ he said, then turned and went along the back of the building to the heavy door.
‘I’ll stay in the background when we get inside,’ Sparhawk quietly told his friend. ‘If he asks, just tell him that I’m a strong back you commandeered to help pull the cart.’
Kalten nodded.
‘Are you here, Anarae?’ Sparhawk asked, looking around in spite of the fact that he knew he wouldn’t be able to see her.
‘Right at thy side, Anakha,’ her voice replied softly.
‘We’ll keep him talking for as long as we can. He’ll probably be a little drunk. Will that make it difficult for you?’
‘I have shared the thoughts of this Krager before,’ she told him. ‘He is coherent unless he is far gone with drink. If it be convenient, direct his attention toward the house where thy Queen was late held captive. That may prod his mind toward thoughts of interest to us.’
‘I’ll see what I can do, Anarae,’ Kalten promised.
The Dacite guard came back. ‘He’ll receive you,’ he announced.
‘Somehow I was almost sure he would,’ Kalten smirked. ‘Master Krager’s very fond of this particular wine.’ He and Sparhawk lifted the shafts of the cart and pulled it along over the rough, littered ground at the back of the semi-restored ruin that appeared to be Scarpa’s main headquarters.
Krager was eagerly waiting in the doorway. His head was shaved, but he still looked much the same. He was dishevelled and unshaven, his near-sighted, watery eyes were bloodshot, and his hands were visibly shaking. ‘Bring it inside,’ he ordered in his familiar, rusty-sounding voice.
Kalten and Sparhawk set the shafts of the cart down, untied the ropes that had held the two barrels in place, and carefully eased one of them out onto the ground. Kalten measured the height of the barrel with a length of the rope and then checked the width of the doorway. ‘Just barely,’ he said. Tip it over, Fron. We’ll be able to roll it in.’