She was hardly aware of Sulmar lifting her off the ground, and she was fast asleep long before they reached the temple.

  11

  Hel’s Crown

  Chentelle stared down at Brother Gorin. He had been asleep for more than a day. Father Marcus had healed his wounds, but the strain had been almost too much for the acolyte. She ran her fingers across the smooth skin of the goblin’s chest and shoulder. It was hard to believe that this was the same body. The Creator truly blessed the Holy Order when he gave to them the power to heal.

  Gorin’s eyes twitched and oriented on Chentelle. He moaned softly.

  “Shhh,” Chentelle said. “You need to rest.”

  He reached up with a trembling hand. “No. I must—”

  Chentelle took his hand in hers. “It’s all right. I’m here. What do you need?”

  “I know—” he rasped. “I know what you did. You saved my life. I will not forget.”

  Chentelle shook her head. “I only helped. You’re the one who did the work. You and Father Marcus.”

  “No,” Gorin said. “I would be dead if not for you. I was foolish to think I could reason with them.”

  “No, Gorin.”

  Chentelle jumped in surprise as Father Marcus entered the room.

  The High Bishop took Gorin’s other hand gently in both of his own. “Not foolish, brother, though perhaps not wise. You acted on your faith, which is strong, and your hope, which drives us all on this quest. It was a noble effort, but I beg you not to try it again. We walk a dangerous path, and the Creation hinges on our success. We do not need another martyr. Now rest, my friend, we will need your strength soon. I will have food and water brought up to you.”

  He set the goblin’s hand back on the bed and motioned Chentelle to follow him out of the room. “Gorin was right,” he said, once they were in the hallway. “The Creator truly blessed us when he chose you for his messenger.”

  The candid sincerity in his voice touched Chentelle. But she wasn’t certain how to respond. She shrugged self-consciously. “Thank you, Father. I only hope I can fulfill my part in this quest, whatever it turns out to be.”

  He smiled at her reassuringly. “I have no doubts that you will. You are stronger than you realize.”

  Sulmar fell in behind them, and they headed down the stairs. A voice hailed them as they reached the bottom.

  “Father Marcus, Enchantress Chentelle, I’ve been looking for you.” Kelmek hurried over to them.

  “What do you need?” asked Marcus.

  “Not me,” said Kelmek, “the large man with the beard. He wants everyone to meet him in the assembly hall.”

  “Dacius?” said Chentelle. “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Kelmek answered. “But the elf with the silver hair just rode in. Maybe that has something to do with it.”

  Chentelle exchanged a quick glance with Father Marcus. “Kelmek,” she said, “Brother Gorin just woke up. He needs food. Will you make sure someone takes him some?”

  “If you wish it,” he said, bowing smoothly, “it will be done.”

  “Thank you.” Then she hurried after Father Marcus.

  They were the last to arrive. Dacius and Thildemar stood near the central dais, and the rest of the company sat on the nearby benches. As soon as they found seats of their own, Dacius nodded to Thildemar.

  “The Treachery,” the elf said evenly, “is gone.”

  “What?” A’stoc said. “Do you mean she has been destroyed?”

  “No, wizard,” Thildemar answered. “There is no debris, no sign of wreckage. I swam nearly every cubit of the lagoon and found no trace of her. She is gone.”

  “Were there signs of goblins?” Chentelle asked.

  Thildemar nodded. “The band that attacked the village followed our trail all the way from the lagoon. No tracks led to the spot, so they must have disembarked from a goblinship.”

  “Could the Treachery have escaped the lagoon?” Father Marcus asked.

  Thildemar turned to Dacius, and the human stepped forward to answer. “It is unlikely. The passage to the lagoon is narrow, and she was virtually unprotected. And if she had escaped, the goblinship would have given chase, not stopped to drop off troops.”

  He paused, but no more questions came. “We must assume that the goblins have captured the Treachery. Indeed, we must hope that they have. Otherwise, we have slim chance of ever returning to the Realm. I propose that we have Kelmek lead us to the Mouth of the Sea. If the goblins concentrate their landings there, it may also be where they took the Treachery.”

  “No,” Father Marcus said. “We must continue to Hel’s Crown.”

  Stunned silence greeted the High Bishop’s words.

  “Father Marcus,” Dacius said. “What good will it do to find the Sphere if we lose our way back to the Realm?”

  “What good will it do to regain the ship only to leave it defenseless again while we retrieve the Sphere of Ohnn? We do not have the men to search for the Sphere and defend the Treachery at the same time. We must complete the one before we attempt the other.”

  “What about the crew?” Dacius demanded. “They need our help now!”

  Father Marcus stood and walked over to Dacius. “I understand your pain, Lord Gemine. More than any of us, you have reason to hate leaving them to the goblins’ mercies. But think this through. If they are to be killed, then they are likely dead already. If they are to be kept alive, then they will be alive when we return from Hel’s Crown.”

  “And if they are to be tortured?” said Dacius.

  “We must pray their wills are strong,” Father Marcus said. “And we must leave immediately. If the Ill-creatures learn of our destination, all may be lost.”

  “Immediately?” Dacius asked. “What about Brother Gorin?”

  “He needs time to recover. But we may need his strength.” Father Marcus paused. “Ellistar sets in less than three hours. We wait until tomorrow’s evenrise. As the Creator is merciful, he will be ready to travel by then.”

  Chentelle steadied Eats-the-marrow-of-her-enemies while Brother Gorin mounted. The priest pulled himself laboriously into the saddle. The skethis twitched angrily, sensing the goblin’s weakened condition. Immediately, Gorin reached out, covering the bird’s eyes with one claw and wrapping the other around its throat. He squeezed, and the skethis became docile. “Thank you, enchantress. It has been a long time, but I think we will be fine now.”

  Chentelle laughed. “No doubt. She won’t dare to challenge you again.” She took a second to check that everyone else was secure on their mounts, then swung into her own saddle.

  She nodded to Kelmek, and the villager prodded his bird tentatively. They traveled light, having left most of their supplies at the temple. Still, they moved slowly as they became accustomed to the strange mounts.

  Kelmek led them down the trail from the village plateau for a few minutes, then turned back to the south. They entered a switchback trail that climbed higher into the mountains. The way was steep, and the footing was awkward. Several times they had to dismount and lead their birds over the rough ground. But as the trip progressed, so did their confidence as riders. By the time Ellistar hung directly overhead, they were cresting the winding path’s final slope.

  Below them, a desolate gray expanse opened into the south. Mountains ringed the plain, surrounding it on all sides. Dark clouds hovered ominously over the western horizon, a grim wall poised to swallow the Golden Sun’s light. Perhaps three leagues to the south, a pinkish mound dominated the horizon. “There it is,” Kelmek said, pointing, “Hel’s Crown.”

  A short trail took them down to the plateau. Stone ruins extended for as far as they could see, pressing right up to the edge of the mountains. Centuries of wind and rain had reduced the buildings to ragged outlines, macabre shadows of a huge and ancient city. Gray sand swirled around their faces, driven by the hot wind. They urged their mounts into a trot.

  Beak-that-rips-throats-and-entrails drove forward with powerful strides. She ran savagely, joyously. Her claws hammered the ground, sending the skethis and her rider bounding into the air. Chentelle’s weight was barely a challenge, and the warbird shrieked, exulting in her strength. Her cry inflamed the flock, and the warbirds leaped forward into a vaulting run.

  There was power in the Sacred City. The air was charged with it. It sparkled in the hot breeze and in the dust that tickled across Chentelle’s skin. But there was no life. Not even weeds grew between the tumbled stones. The grit that collected on her lips spoke only of dry and ancient bones.

  The skethis raced onward. Ground flew beneath their feet, and leagues melted into the distance. But eventually the great birds began to tire. The humans’ mounts suffered the worst, but even Beak-that-rips-throats-and-entrails felt the burning in her legs. By the time they reached the foot of Hel’s Crown, the birds had slowed to a loping walk.

  The great dome of rock rose steeply from the plain, as if a huge sphere had been driven halfway into the flatland. The fleah-colored granite rose hundreds of cubits into the air. Bare of vegetation, the surface of the rock was colored only by occasional runnels of jet-black stone. A narrow ledge angled from the base of the rock, climbing upward for fifty cubits and then fading into a hodgepodge of hand and footholds.

  They reined in their skethis and dismounted. The great birds would never be able to manage those slopes.

  “I can’t make the skethis wait here,” Chentelle said. “They’ll die if they don’t get water and forage.”

  Dacius looked around at the unbroken wasteland that surrounded them. “Send them back to the mountains. But have them wait for us there, if you can. We will need to move quickly once we recover the Sphere.”

  Chentelle sang softly to Beak-that-rips-throats-and-entrails. She told the warbird about fresh mountain streams that ran with clear water. Fat rodents came to the rivers to drink, and long-bodied snakes stayed close to feed on the rodents. Chentelle felt anticipation build within her mount. She tried to convey the idea that the skethis should wait in the mountains for her return, but the birds had little concept of the future. The best she could manage was a vague equation of the mountains as good place. She released her song.

  The warbird shuffled her feet and squawked with excitement. She danced around the other birds and screamed challenges into the air, reasserting her right to rule. The other skethis whined in submission. Beak-that-rips-throats-and-entrails roared in triumph and started running northward, leading her flock back to the mountains.

  Kelmek led them onto the narrow ridge. Faces pressed to the rock, they inched sideways until the ledge was hardly wider than their own feet. Then they started climbing. Kelmek guided them up a channel of slim cracks and rock swells. Using these tenuous hand grips and footholds, they pulled their way slowly up the slope.

  Chentelle’s fingers scratched for a grip on the bald granite. She could feel Earthpower coursing through the surface of the stone, but something blocked her from sensing anything deeper. She found a crevice and wedged her hand into it, adding one more member to the legion of abrasions that decorated her arms and shins. She pulled, lifting herself up to the next foothold. Her arm ached from the effort. She paused for a moment, breathing deeply and trying to stop the trembling in her legs. Her pack pulled at her shoulders, threatening to overbalance her and send her tumbling backward. It seemed to become heavier the higher they climbed, as though it had some natural attraction to the ground.

  She worried about Brother Gorin. How was his strength holding up? A quick look downward reassured her. The goblin climbed without effort. His hard claws gripped the rock face easily, and he pulled himself upward with surprising agility. Indeed, it was Father Marcus who seemed to be having the most difficulty. Sweat poured down the old priest’s face, and his labored breathing was audible even above the warm wind.

  They came at last to another ledge. It was no wider than the first and barely long enough to hold them all, but it couldn’t have been more welcome if it had held all the delights of a king’s palace.

  “We can rest here,” Kelmek said.

  Gratefully, they leaned against the stone wall.

  “By the Creator,” Father Marcus gasped, “how do your people carry their dead up this slope?”

  “We tie ropes to the burial sled,” Kelmek said, “and the family pulls their loved one up after them. We believe that by taking this burden on ourselves, we make the rest of the journey easier on the departed. They are assured of a safe passage to the next world.”

  The villager slipped out of his pack and spun around on the narrow ridge. He sat down smoothly, keeping his back pressed to the rock. He kept the pack on his lap and dangled his feet in the air. “You should rest your legs,” he told them. “The next part of the climb is difficult.”

  A chorus of groans answered the villager.

  “Hel’s Crown, indeed,” A’stoc muttered. “This damnable rock is liable to do the Dark One’s job for him.”

  One by one, they managed to turn themselves around and sit down. Only Sulmar and Gorin moved with anything approaching Kelmek’s easy grace. It seemed that they had barely completed the process when Kelmek stood and announced that it was time to move again.

  Minutes crept by like hours, and they forced their way up the mountain. More than once they found themselves relying on holds that were solid to their hands but impossible to see from below. At last, the slope began to level off. The climb became easier, and they were soon able to scramble forward on all fours.

  The upper surface of the rock was decorated by a sparse covering of grass and weeds, sprouting outward from narrow cracks in the surface. By the time they could walk upright, the grass had become thick and a thin layer of soil was appearing. They continued to climb, and were soon met by an amazing sight: a gnarled oak perched at the apex of the mound. It was small and twisted, but its very existence screamed defiance to the wasteland around them.

  Kelmek used the oak to gather his bearing and adjusted their course slightly. They descended a short distance down the south side and came to an abrupt cliff. The south face of the mountain was a shattered progression of steep cliffs and narrow terraces. Kelmek pointed to a stone that marked the top of a vertical crevice and led them over the side. They worked themselves down to the first terrace.

  A thin layer of soil had collected in the flat tier, and more oaks grew here. Kelmek went to the largest of these and gasped. He looked about in momentary confusion, then hung his head over the side of the ledge.

  “The cave entrance is below us,” he said, climbing back to his feet. “There should be a ladder here. Without it we can’t get down. The cliff below slopes back into the rock.”

  Dacius went to the ledge and looked over. “I make it a twelve-cubit drop. Leth, Alve, break out your ropes.”

  The Legionnaires quickly dropped their packs and went to work. They tied two ropes to the tree, one at the base and one just above the first branches. They dropped the free end of the lower rope over the ledge.

  “Thildemar,” Dacius said, “you’re first. Make sure that landing is safe.”

  He tied the other end of the higher rope around the elf’s chest and motioned to Sulmar. The two humans braced themselves against the far end of the tree. They lowered slack slowly from the safety line while Thildemar climbed down the other rope. Soon, the safety line jumped against the rock, and they pulled up the free end. A few moments later they heard Thildemar’s whistled “all clear.”

  One by one they descended the rope. This terrace was broader than the one above, but devoid of vegetation. A dark opening in the wall led deeper into the mountain.

  Dacius came last, lowering himself carefully. He untied the line around his chest and glared at the hanging cords. Then he shrugged and turned back to the company. “I don’t like leaving sign of our passage, but we may need them on our trip back.”

  “I would not worry,” A’stoc said. “If my suspicions are correct, the danger in front of us makes any fears of a goblin patrol superfluous.”

  “And what, exactly, are your suspicions?” Dacius asked.

  “I prefer to keep them private, for now,” A’stoc said. “I may be wrong.”

  “And you may be right,” Dacius countered. “The safety of this quest is my responsibility. If you have some insight as to what awaits us, then tell me now so that I can prepare.”

  A’stoc sighed. “Very well. I listened carefully to the old man’s story. I believe the tunnels are inhabited by demonspawn. Now, make whatever preparations you wish.”

  Dacius stared at the wizard, but said nothing. He turned to Kelmek. “Take us in.”

  They entered the cave. Ellistar’s light penetrated only a few cubits into the passageway. Beyond was darkness. Father Marcus pulled a globe of adartak from his pack.

  “No,” A’stoc said. “Use no magic, not orb-light, not elf Lore, nothing. It could betray our presence.”

  Father Marcus put the globe away. “I assume you have made other preparations?” A’stoc nodded.

  Dacius also nodded. “Kelmek,” he said.

  The villager pulled a bundle of thin torches from his pack. He used a flint to light one of them, then passed its flame on to a second. He handed one of the torches to Alve and started deeper into the cavern.

  The wide passage angled slightly downward. The floor was smooth and even, and the ceiling tall enough for even A’stoc to stand erect. They came to an intersection and Kelmek led them down the left fork. He went left again at the next junction, then right. He paused for a long time at the next split, then decided on the left passage.

  A few minutes later, the tunnel opened out into a large chamber. The walls formed an almost perfect circle, and four stone pillars rose in the center of the cavern. Each pillar had a brazier resting upon it, though all were unlit. The light of their torches was just enough to illuminate a ring of holes bored into the wall.

  Kelmek gave a strangled cry and ran to one of the openings. “By the Holy,” he gasped. He ran frantically to another hole, then another.