The airship was nearly a hundred feet long, built of Aerenal soarwood. She looked very much like a sea vessel, except for the observation dome in the underside of the hull and the four great struts that held the blazing ring of elemental fire around the ship’s waist. Mordan had seen airships before, both in war and peace, and this one seemed built for the former purpose. Her construction was plain and functional, lacking the lavish ornamentation and luxurious furnishings of the private sky-yachts and the Lyrandar liners. At each end, on a raised platform, a heavy ballista stood ready beneath a canvas tarpaulin, and each of the side-rails was fitted with swivel mounts for heavy repeating crossbows. While the ship wasn’t equipped for dealing death from above, she was well able to take care of herself.
Haldin lorded it over the ship’s crew, providing more evidence of his high status within the Ministry. Mordan wondered if he had met the Minister personally—the gregarious gnome certainly had the charm to move in such exalted circles—and what he was like. Stories were told of the reclusive Count Vedim ir’Omrik and his grisly work. It was said that he had been the first to discover the means of creating the enhanced skeletons and zombies used by the Karrnathi military, and had personally overseen the training of the first bone knights. He had fallen from prominence since the end of the War, as Karrnath tried to downplay its necromantic prowess for diplomatic reasons, and it was rumored that the King had instructed him not to appear at court. Some said that he had a secret laboratory hidden somewhere in the kingdom, where—according to who was doing the telling—he worked tirelessly to create ever more powerful undead protectors for Karrnath, or he engaged in ever more vile and insane experiments.
Rumor was vague about the location of his lair. Some accounts placed it in a secret labyrinth beneath the huge Crimson Monastery in the dread city of Atur, while others maintained that the Count had moved into the Mournland to study the new and strange necromantic phenomena that took place there. At least one account claimed the Count’s secret laboratory was hidden deep within the Nightwood, and Mordan wondered if that was true. He also wondered if that was where they were going.
As Karrlakton receded on the southern horizon, the edge of the Nightwood loomed to the north. Somehow, it looked bigger from the air; it stretched out of sight in every direction, a dark green carpet covering the land. The small farming villages that nestled on its southern flank belied the dark tales told of the interior. The outer fringes of the great forest were safe enough for hunters and woodsmen—safe enough, in fact, for much of their extent to be declared a royal hunting-park—but terrible stories were told of the dark depths of the forest, and of those who had ventured into them and never returned.
It was late afternoon when Tarrel joined Mordan at the ship’s rail.
“So that’s the famous Nightwood,” he said. “How big is it?”
“About three hundred miles from east to west, and one to two hundred from north to south,” he replied.
Tarrel grinned. “Oh, the King’s Forest is twice that size,” he said. “It goes all the way from Sharn to Wroat.”
Mordan punched him playfully on the shoulder. “Typical Brelander,” he said, “everything’s bigger and better at home. I’m surprised you people ever travel anywhere.”
“Oh, we like to,” answered Tarrel jokingly, “so we can tell everyone else how great our country is.” He gestured at the Nightwood again. “Is it true there’s a chasm in the middle that reaches right down to Khyber?”
“Why do you ask?” said Mordan. “So you can tell me there’s one in Breland that reaches through Khyber, out the other side, and down to the bottom of the universe?”
Tarrel became serious. “How are we going to find one necromancer in the middle of all those trees?”
“I expect Haldin’s got a plan,” Mordan replied. “He seems to be good at that sort of thing.”
“What do you make of him?” asked Tarrel.
Mordan spread his arms, indicating the airship and her crew. “If he can get the use of this, he’s not just a Ministry filing clerk,” he said.
Tarrel nodded. “True,” he said. “I was watching him during the attack on the fort, and he’s got some powerful magic. Is he Blood of Vol, do you think?”
Mordan shook his head.
“No,” he said. “The only Blood clerics I ever met were completely humorless. I’m not sure they even recruit gnomes. And that dragon statue of his—I’ve seen it somewhere, but I can’t place it. He could follow a gnome god, I suppose, or some power the Ministry has a deal with.”
“Well,” said Tarrel, “after watching him in action, I’m glad he’s on our side—small as he is.”
“Size can be deceptive,” replied Mordan. “I learned that on the Talenta Plains. Some of those halfling hunters are tougher than a dwarf’s boots.”
Their conversation was interrupted by a howl of pain from Haldin’s cabin. Crew members scurried to see what had happened, but the gnome came out rubbing his eyes and waved them away.
“A very clever fellow, our friend Dravuliel,” he said, beckoning Mordan and Tarrel inside. The cabin was low and dark, dominated by a large wooden desk. A long-legged chair was upset beside the desk, and upon the tabletop stood a crystal ball on a bronze tripod.
“I got a good enough look at him at the fort, so I thought I would try to scry his location,” he continued, “but it seems he was prepared for that eventuality. Not only did he block my vision, but he also managed to send back some kind of magical attack through the crystal ball.” Righting the chair, he sat down, holding the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb like a man with a headache.
“Does that mean he knows we’re coming?” asked Tarrel.
The gnome nodded. “That was never in doubt,” he said. “After the way he showed his hand at the fort, he would be foolish not to expect pursuit, and whatever else he may be, this elf is no fool.”
Haldin opened a fitted cupboard behind his desk, taking out three goblets and a glass decanter. “Would you care to join me?” he asked. “I’m afraid all I have is Zil brandy. The Cyran is so hard to come by these days.” He poured three glasses. “Now,” he said when they had drunk, “based on the rough directions given by our captive, I estimate that we are very close to our destination. I was hoping to establish a more precise location using the crystal ball, but I don’t think I shall try that again.”
“Why didn’t you bring him along?” asked Tarrel. “Maybe he could have guided us there.”
“Two reasons,” answered Haldin. “I felt it was important that he should go to the Ministry for study, along with the remains of his less mobile comrades. They will also find those improved skeletal horses very interesting, I think. Second, I did not want to bring him too close to his former master, in case his loyalty should return—either by itself or through magical persuasion.”
“Anyway,” he said, getting up from the desk, “we should consider our course of action upon arrival. Would you be so kind as to follow me?”
He led them along a companionway and down a flight of steps into the heart of the ship. Opening a polished wooden door, he waved them inside with a bow, and they found themselves in some kind of equipment locker.
Racks of weapons and armor lined the walls, and crates of ropes, bottles, and other objects were secured to the floor. The two stood silently for a moment, looking about them.
“Please feel free to take anything you think will be useful,” said Haldin. “I have left orders that the same courtesy is to be extended to Captain ir’Mallon when she wakes.”
Before they could reply, the ship lurched suddenly, and there were cries of alarm from on deck. The three hurried out to see what was the matter.
Some of the crew were leaning over the rail, pointing in alarm. The ballista crews were hurriedly clearing their weapons of their tarpaulins. Others, including the two half-elves who had accompanied Haldin to Fort Zombie, were securing heavy repeating crossbows to their mounts on the rails and slapping in magazines of bolts.