Soramat righted himself and sucked on the bruised and scraped fingers of his left hand. He stared at Hernan with a combination of hate and fear. Hernan turned away, knowing he had nothing to fear from the smaller man.
Hernan had been a mercenary, his sword for hire to the owners of small caravans traveling Cerilia. He had journeyed through Vosgaard, into the land of the Khinasi, the Heartlands, and to the western coast.
Four years before, he had served as a watchman for a small caravan traveling from Ansien, in Elinie, to Ruorven, in Coeranys. One night as he stood watch, he was surrounded by a blackness that blinded his eyes and his soul, and he fell unconscious. He had awakened to find himself securely bound, along with six others from the caravan. The prisoners bounced against each other in a rough cart that traveled across open country to the swamps of Elinie. His struggles to free himself ceased when the cart stopped at the edge of the swamp in northeastern Elinie, and Czrak rose up out of the muck.
Hernan’s fear turned to worship under the baleful stare of the awnshegh. Czrak did not speak, but Hernan, a bitter man because wealth and power always seemed to be beyond his reach, suddenly knew he had found the key to his dreams. He would be the leader of armies, the one human all Cerilia would fear. All that was required of him was worship of Czrak and unquestioning loyalty.
Though he was impatient with the gnolls and generally hated their species, he hadn’t forgotten that the four who led him through the tunnels had brought him to Czrak. He excused many of their faults and their insolence because they had brought him to his good fortune.
Only two of the first seven humans had survived the first two weeks: Hernan and Vilcher, the second mercenary. Of the five others, two were weak-minded cart drivers who were just bright enough to care for the animals and follow the carts in front of them. They had been driven mad under the spell of Czrak. The three others were stout, soft-bodied merchants who proved too weak to serve the awnshegh in any way except as food.
The awnshegh began strengthening Hernan, preparing him to be the Sword of Czrak. Meanwhile, Vilcher was given command of the gnolls and sent them out on raiding forays to find and bring in other converts. Within six months, they had increased their band of humanoids to twelve. Vilcher, strong in both arm and mind, had been an unimaginative sort with a lazy streak. He had made the mistake of capturing too many humans out of the Elinie capital of Ansien, the city closest to the swamp. When the nightly patrols disappeared as easily as the citizens, the locals built a strong palisade around the city. Czrak had been enraged, and Vilcher became an additional meal.
Behind Hernan, the sounds of shuffling feet and the spitting of badly made torches were overlaid with complaints. The men hated the dark and what seemed like aimless wandering through the twisting natural tunnels, and they distrusted the gnolls who guided them. Their concern over their path, the lack of good air, and the uneven walking made them edgy and tense. Too tense, too edgy, and that led to emotional fatigue.
Hernan could have made the journey easier. With the power given him by Czrak, he could have drawn fresh air into the tunnels and produced light by magic, eliminating the need for torches, but he chose not to. He might need all his powers against the elves. Soramat, who walked immediately behind him; Nissening, who brought up the end of the line; and Hernan himself were the only three Czrak had trusted with even a portion of his power. They all wore the mud-filled pouches in their left palms and could call on the powers of the awnshegh.
“We need to stop,” Hernan told the gnolls. “Find us a place where fresh air blows down from an opening above.”
“And be smelled by elveses?” Gerbid taunted, his yellow eyes gleaming, his head shaking with laughter.
“Just do as I say,” Hernan snapped.
Hernan could not afford to risk the strength of his small party, either to fatigue, tension, or falls in the darkness. More than two hundred captives had been brought to the swamp, but most were city dwellers, caught while traveling on family business or trading. Their minds as well as their bodies were soft. Eight out of ten died and became tidbits to sate the growing appetite of the awnshegh. Only one in four of the captives survived. They resembled Hernan in experience and desire. The most useful were dissatisfied mercenaries like himself, or criminals.
With that discovery, he led a small band of good fighters into the stews of Shieldhaven, Ruorven, and Dhalaene. He searched out the strongest of the criminal element, taking only one or two at a time. Hernan had found the rest of his band on the roads: snatch-purses, robbers, and murderers escaping the cities. He captured bandits while they lay in wait for rich caravans. Still, it had taken more than three years to gather a force of fifty, and he knew better than to push them too far.
Hernan, the only one who knew Czrak’s purpose, advised caution and the gathering of a larger force, but the awnshegh was too impatient to wait.
In a grove in the western arm of Sielwode, lying on the ground under a pile of leaves and a rotting tree limb, was one of the most powerful concentrations of magic on Aebrynis. It came from the Shadow World, a different plane, and had been dweomered by the great Azrai himself. A sword called Deathirst. How it had entered the other plane and then returned to this one was a mystery, but it was within the reach of Hernan; therefore, Czrak must have it.
Then, three weeks before Hernan had set off with the gnolls, Czrak had reached out, seeking to sense Deathirst and make sure it still lay safe. He discovered the Gorgon’s mind had also found the sword.
In a frenzy to possess the sword, Czrak had ordered Hernan to lead a force to get it. At nearly the cost of his life, Hernan delayed, insisting an attack on the closely watched borders would lead to disaster. He persuaded Czrak to send the gnolls underground to travel the fissures and caverns beneath the surface until they were near the area where Deathirst lay hidden. When they insisted they were as near as they could get, Hernan had set them to digging their way to the surface. Now only a thin layer of dirt needed to be pulled away to open the tunnel mouth. He was ready to invade Sielwode from within.
Soon Deathirst, given power by the god Azrai, would be in his hand, a weapon to be used in the service of Czrak. With that blade, Hernan would conquer all of Cerilia.
In the service of Czrak, he reminded himself, and then wondered why he felt the need of the added reinforcement? He was totally loyal to the awnshegh, but as he got farther and farther from the swamp in Elinie, remembrance of his personal ambition had begun to wriggle back into his mind.
Up ahead, Gerbid stopped. Loose soil blocked the way, but the gnoll looked back, his canine mouth open in his perpetual laugh.
“Up above is elveses—muchly elveses,” He said, pointing to a steep incline that had been newly dug.
“Lead the way,” Hernan ordered, his hand gripping the sword at his side. As they climbed over the loose dirt, he heard the sounds of digging. Occasional showers of dirt sprinkled down on him and his followers. Behind him he heard complaints and a couple of panicked voices.
“Is just digging through littlest last bit of dirt,” Gerbid said, and Orsht laughed at the fears of the humans.
“Seeing tree roots,” Orsht explained, pointing to the jagged ends that had been cut away. “Holding dirt in place, is tree roots. No falling ins of dirt.”
Hernan grudgingly admitted the gnolls had done well. They were right; the roots of some ancient tree supported the ceiling of the newly cut tunnel, and some roots served as handholds and steps. The last of the dirt came showering down, bringing fallen leaves with it.
Minutes later, Hernan led the first of his forces out of the newly dug shaft and into the dim light of Sielwode. Behind him, Soramat scrambled out of the hole and gave all his attention to shaking the soil from his clothing. Hernan grinned. Before he had been enlisted by Czrak, Soramat had been a mage, but only a user of lesser magic, and not a very competent one. He had relied on trickery and showmanship. He hated to soil his ornately trimmed robes.