Authors: Brian Fuller
“It was the dwarves who first noticed the approach of Mikkik’s vast army streaming across this very plain. The elves and dwarves determined they would stand together with whatever human forces they could convince of their report. The plan was laid, but with little confidence of success. The elves and several thousand humans set a line of defense around Emerald Lake, hoping to control the numbers of creatures Mikkik could bring to bear by throwing up defenses at a narrow constriction in the valley between the Ironheart and Wardwall Mountains.
“Mikkik’s army approached, but the promised aid from the dwarves never arrived, neither did a promised contingent of Rhugothian men from Echo Hold. Since Khore-Thaka-Tnahk and Echo Hold are in close proximity to each other, it was simply assumed that Mikkik’s army had overtaken and destroyed them both. The following years and the Shattering permitted no time or means for investigation of the matter.
When I explored this shard last summer, I had hoped to find signs of them, but the size of the shard only allowed me to find Elde Luri Mora and return. I have a hard time believing such a race as they—hearty, vigorous, and fierce—met with total annihilation. At Unification I sincerely hope to encounter a group of them marching to our aid. Elves and dwarves were very different, but I would rather have a contingent of dwarves than elves at my side in a close fight.”
“Why?” Chertanne asked. “Seems they would be too short to be effective.”
Maewen disagreed fervently. “The dwarves were short, yes, but stronger than men, possessing more endurance than elves, and they were more relentless than either one. Uyumaak hated dwarves more than any other enemy. When both sides reached the unspoken point of exhaustion and called a cessation in the fighting to recuperate, the dwarves would not let the enemy rest, harrying them unendingly. While it may seem glorious or satisfying to decapitate an enemy or run a sword through its heart, it is just as effective to smash its knees with a warhammer or disembowel it with a sharp battle ax.”
“There is something out there!” Jaron yelled. Drawn steel rang through the night as soldiers pulled weapons and ran to where Jaron stood. The Chalaine found herself guided back toward the horses by a firm hand from Dason, Cadaen performing the same service for her mother. Fenna, Geoff, Chertanne and one of his soldiers joined them shortly thereafter. The Chalaine gritted her teeth at the Ha’Ulrich’s lack of iron.
Ahead of them Jaron pointed into the fog below. “Something yellow rose up out of the fog just for an instant. It was round and wet, about the size of a waterskin. It looked like, well. . .”
“An eye,” Maewen finished for him, unlimbering her bow. “Throgs.”
“What in Mikkik’s name are Throgs?” Jaron asked.
“Quiet. I will explain later,” she remonstrated. “Just kill anything coming up that hill.”
The night took on a hollow, haunted feeling as they waited in the dark, every sense attuned to the sounds of the breeze waving through the grass and the nervous movements of horses and men. Just when Maewen would relax her bow, some rustling not quite natural would snap it up again. A reek carried on the wind that reminded them of rotting meat in a hot summer market and wrinkled their noses, eliciting quiet oaths from those at the wall.
Then they all saw what Jaron spied many minutes before.
An oblong orb, wet and yellow in the moonlight, drifted up from the fog, its round, black iris focusing on them. Maewen fired, but the eye plunged back into the fog and her arrow flew harmlessly into the night.
“What is that thing?” Jaron asked again in a hushed tone.
“It's an eye,” she explained. “It floats up from the head of the Throg.”
The sound of a rock falling from the top of the wall and thudding to the ground spun heads in that direction, but nothing presented itself in the ample moonlight.
“It may be moving around, and there may be more than one,” Maewen announced quietly. “They know we are here. They should leave.”
The last she spoke to the swirling fog ahead of them as if trying to convince whatever concealed itself inside to depart. Another rock fell near the same place as the last.
“Are they toying with us?” Jaron speculated to himself as they fixed their gaze to that spot, a rustling noise behind the wall in that area drawing Maewen’s arrow point in that direction. As she moved left, the men moved out of her line of sight and followed her closely. The horses nickered and stamped nervously as the uncomfortable smell of decay befouled their nostrils.
“What is this?” Jaron demanded of Maewen. Then Geoff yelled in pain and two of the horses reared and screamed, pulling at their stakes. Eyes darted about frantically. Standing in the moonlight ten paces from the Chalaine was what in shape most resembled a dog, but one that would be found curled on the hearth of Mikkik’s fire.
In size it was a mastiff, in form a greyhound, in color sable. Coarse, wiry hair jutted from its body in uneven patches. Several small, spider-like eyes glinted like flint in the weak light, ringing an abnormally large head. Where a snout would have been was a hole from which three fleshy tubules had shot forth, one embedding itself on Geoff’s leg and two others attaching to the flanks of the horses. Blood pulled from its victims pulsed along the tubules, swelling the creature’s belly.
Fenna stood frozen at her husband’s side. Dason leapt past her and brought his sword down on the tubule leeching blood from the bard, severing it. The tubule slurped back into the mouth of the Throg, the other two returning with it as the horses bolted into the night. The Throg turned to go, the large floating eye descending to fit inside a cavity of its head as it sprinted for the wall. Maewen shot, but a rearing horse took the arrow instead.
“There are more!” Jaron yelled.
Panicking horses pulled up stakes, bucked, and bolted, scattering the party and throwing the hilltop into chaos.
“To the center!” Maewen yelled, everyone endeavoring to obey in the midst of flying hooves. Four more Throgs jumped the wall and regarded the party for a moment before chasing the horses into the night and disappearing with them.
“Geoff is hurt!” Fenna finally yelled, kneeling at his side. The Chalaine rushed over with Maewen, the remainder watching the wall for more signs of the beasts. Geoff lay pale and unmoving, insensible eyes fixed on the heavens. Two feet of the tubule still attached to his leg drained blood onto the ground. Maewen reached down and yanked it out, a hunk of flesh coming with it, while the Chalaine worked to heal the handsome bard. After several seconds, comprehension returned to his eyes and his face colored. He seemed about to talk, but Fenna hushed him with her finger.
For the next hour every ear extended into the dark only to be assaulted at random intervals with the agony of dying horses. Nearly an hour of complete silence passed before anyone had the stomach to speak, and it was Jaron.
“Now do you want to explain what those were, Maewen?”
“As I said,” she returned bitterly, “those are Throgs. Mikkik invented those late in the second war as a way to track down anyone gone into hiding. They can communicate with the mind of a Chukka to whom they are bound. As you saw, the eye they possess allows them to spy silently and at distance, and they drain the blood of animals for sustenance. They are intelligent, but not hearty. Under better circumstances, we could have killed them easily. They don’t often chance coming near an armed party. They were hungry.”
“So you are saying that the Uyumaak know where we are?” Athan asked, his high-pitched voice almost at a whine.
“Yes,” Maewen answered, a calm counterpoint to the terror breeding around her. “But the worst blow to us is the loss of the horses. Once we killed the Hunters, we had the advantage. Without the horses, it falls to the Uyumaak again.”
“It is obvious that this entire trip was badly planned and horribly mismanaged!” Chertanne spat. “Regent Ogbith must have been bereft of reason when he approved this! Only an idiot would not have foreseen the Uyumaak threat! We needed five times the numbers and much better intelligence. Blood sucking dogs? Mikkik’s breath! I didn’t hear the Regent mention those!”
The Chalaine, feelings raw, could listen no longer. “The only thing he didn’t foresee was that the Ha’Ulrich would be the most useless coward ever to walk Ki’Hal! For Eldaloth’s sake, Chertanne, you were in all the planning meetings for nearly a year. Did you think to voice your concerns then, or were all the details just too boring for you to pay attention to? Perhaps you spent your time trying to determine which concubine to visit or decide on a brothel where you hadn’t sufficiently sowed your seed! Regent Ogbith treated me like a daughter and I loved him. Don’t ever take his name on your lips again unless it is to praise his memory. He was ten times the man you are!”
Chertanne slapped her, pain erupting on her cheek.
“Chertanne!” Athan yelled, running forward.
“I will not be. . .” Chertanne managed before Jaron dropped him with a thunderous punch to the face. The Ha’Ulrich crumpled to the ground, dazed and bleeding from a cut under his eye. The two remaining Aughmerian soldiers drew their swords, Jaron meeting their challenge. Before a fight could erupt, Athan interposed.
“Weapons away! Put them away!” he ordered, eyes frantic. “Can’t you see that this serves no one?”
After several tense moments, both sides scabbarded their swords and Athan dropped to a knee, pressing part of his cloak to Chertanne’s cut while helping him sit. When the Ha’Ulrich’s eyes did focus, they burned with anger and shame.
“As I was saying,” he continued, standing with Athan’s help, “I will not be talked to in that manner by anyone, especially not my wife.”
Jaron’s gagging tore the Chalaine’s attention away from her husband. Her Protector had grabbed his throat, unable to breathe.
Chertanne said, “You see, my magic may not be powerful enough to do great things, but men can be killed by simple ones.” The Ha’Ulrich breathed heavily, face registering exhaustion from the effort required to cast the spell. “I suggest you hold your tongue, Chalaine, or this will happen again, only to those more dear!”
Jaron fell to the grass, face turning purple.
“What have you done?” the Chalaine demanded, Jaron spasming. “Undo it, Chertanne! Now!”
Chertanne turned away, Athan helping him toward his horse while talking quickly to him in low tones.
Maewen ran forward, pulling her knife. “Get his hands away from his throat!” she ordered. Kimdan and Dason pulled them away with difficulty, Jaron thrashing and desperately trying to wrench his arms away from his companions. Cadaen and another Dark Guard immobilized his legs. “Come close, Chalaine,” Maewen said, “and be ready to heal him. We may have a chance to save him.”
As the Chalaine knelt near Dason, grasping Jaron’s forearm, Maewen cut into Jaron’s throat, slicing it along its length. Jaron convulsed in pain, momentarily stopping the procedure. Once Jaron was subdued, she continued by wedging open the windpipe with the tip of her knife until she found the obstruction Chertanne had created by transmuting the air inside it.
Working quickly, Maewen removed a smooth stone from Jaron’s airway. “Now, Chalaine.”
The Chalaine concentrated, sending her thoughts to the injured throat and healing it from the inside out. When done, the Chalaine opened her eyes and sat to rest herself. Jaron took several moments to relax, rubbing his throat where Maewen had sliced him open. Chertanne watched from a distance, Athan lecturing him animatedly.
Jaron stood. “I wish Gen would have killed him. I should have helped. He always did see clearly.”
Mirelle stepped forward and grabbed the front of Jaron’s tunic.
“Listen to me,” she hissed. “I know Chertanne is unbearable, but you must subdue your feelings. Bury them, Jaron. The Chalaine will suffer indignities, but she must stay alive, and I need you alive to see that accomplished. If Eldaloth is with us, we can hope her sufferings will be short. Please control yourself. We have already lost Gen and cannot afford to lose you.”
“I am sorry, First Mother. I will try. But this I swear: when he lays a hand on the Chalaine, I will mete out worse to him. What stings her will bruise him. If she bleeds, he will gush. If a bone of hers is cracked, one of his will be broken. If she falls by some blow of his, then he will fall into his grave by one of mine.”
“I hope it will not come to that,” Mirelle soothed, rubbing his arm. “Padra Athan, no doubt, is busily chastening Chertanne on the matter now, and I think Athan is the only one Chertanne is listening to. Just exercise caution and act for our greater good! Now if you and Dason would step away for a moment, I need to have a private word with my daughter.”
The Chalaine stepped aside with her mother, the Dark Guard surrounding them at a discrete distance. Mirelle took her daughter’s hand and pulled it to her heart, thinking several moments.
“I am sorry, Mother,” the Chalaine apologized. “I know what you are going to say, and I will keep quiet. I have been so upset, angry, and now terrified. I have been saying and thinking the most awful things.”
“No, daughter,” Mirelle counseled, voice stern. “Silence is not enough now. I told you after your wedding that you would need to let me deal with Chertanne and Athan, and you have to let me do it. I know it will be hard, but you must act the part of the submissive wife, for now. You must take Chertanne’s side, even against your conscience. You must be obedient. And yes, you must keep your tongue. I know this is repugnant. I know it. But for the salvation of all, and for the salvation of a few now, you must suffer. It should not be so, but there is no helping it until we are in safer times and places. I promise you there will be amends for you some day.”