Ulcher, whose left leg had been withered by a stray spell from an opposing—and dying—mage, decided his best chance of survival would be to offer his services to Mmaadag. Klasmonde, in order to keep his life, did the same, but his hungry gaze often strayed to the Crown.
In the beginning, the new world held promise, but with the arrival of the minions of Azrai, the sky and the world changed. Dark clouds, at first thought to be part of a coming storm, hid the sun. At first they gathered and then dissipated, but each time they formed they lasted longer, until at last they became a permanent part of the sky. Forests twisted into grotesque shapes, as if the limbs and branches were contorting in an effort to find more light. The rich grasslands became rank in the dimness, and foul plants grew in the shadows. The halflings whispered that the evil newcomers tainted the land, and even Ulcher believed it.
Through the centuries, the land became known as the Shadow World.
Four hundred and fifty years later, weary of life and his deformity, Ulcher was still serving in Castle Gough, searching old records, trying to find a dependable access back into the world of Aebrynis. There were many records and books of magic. Most of the mages of the southern continent had brought their books and scrolls of magic spells with them when they accompanied the armies. During the battle of Mount Deismaar, they looted the possessions of the dead mages of Cerilia for more. When Mmaadag Cemfrid fought and killed another lich-lord, he always confiscated any books of magic lore.
But Mmaadag Cemfrid was dead, killed in a battle at a portal. Every time Ulcher thought of the battle and the incident that caused it, he suppressed a giggle.
When the servants of Azrai arrived in the Shadow World, they set about enslaving the small natives. The halflings were a spirited people, kept in check only by death threats, not to themselves but to those they loved—a weakness the new arrivals used against them. Many fled to areas the lich-lords had not claimed, and some remained hidden for generations.
When Mmaadag Cemfrid learned of a small group of halflings living two days’ journey away from the borders of his lands, he sent a company of soldiers to take them captive and bring them into Castle Gough. The soldiers who returned after the battle reported the halflings had fought back with rakes, hoes, and goat dung, the last of which they had thrown in the faces of his warriors. They had knocked Mmaadag’s standard out of the hands of its carrier, and one spirited halfling had stomped on the banner.
As Ulcher visualized the insult to the lich-lord, he giggled again.
After centuries of accepting fear and servility as his due, Mmaadag Cemfrid was stunned speechless. His shock turned to ungovernable rage that cost the lives of the messengers, as well as those of two stable hands who had not been fast enough to saddle the lord’s war-horse. Mmaadag had chased the halflings through a portal that led into Aebrynis and fell in battle with a group of Cerilian elves and goblins. The shock of his death was so great, the skies above Castle Gough had lightened for five days.
Klasmonde Volkir returned from the portal with the Crown of Darkness. Without Deathirst, though, he could never defend Castle Gough. Klasmonde lived in fear, and Ulcher was carefully considering not only the fear, but the lich’s reactions. The mage’s only chance for survival was in defection, but what was his wisest course? He paced the room, limping on his bad leg until a scream drew him to the high window.
It was midday in the Shadow World, but the dimness of the landscape was like deep twilight on Aebrynis. From the window, high in the tallest tower of Castle Gough, Ulcher could see only a portion of the courtyard below, and a section of the outer, defensive walls. The dimness partially hid the fields beyond. He could barely make out the wood in the distance because of the darkness.
Immediately below him, the work on the broken wall held his interest; it had always roused his curiosity. The break had been Mmaadag Cemfrid’s major frustration and was even more important to Klasmonde. Why did every stone placed in that break fail and fall? The defenses of Gough were impregnable except for that one spot.
Klasmonde’s first act when he took the Crown of Darkness was to order the repair again. Ulcher watched as the soldiers used whips to drive the slaves faster as they pulled huge stones up the dirt ramp that had been used five times for the same purpose.
Klasmonde needed to complete the defenses of the castle in order to hold it. He was too insecure to ignore any opportunity to strengthen his position. He was accepted as lich-lord in Gough, but only because his minions believed the power of the throne rested in the Crown of Darkness.
For four hundred fifty years, Ulcher had known Klasmonde had wanted to regain possession of the Crown again. He had tasted power and hungered for it. Through four and a half centuries he hated knowing his life was dependent on his service to Mmaadag Cemfrid. Klasmonde gave his lich-lord his loyalty in fact, if not in spirit, and secretly drew bloodpower where he could until even Mmaadag gave him a measure of respect.
Ulcher heard Klasmonde’s voice raised in anger and leaned forward to peer down into the courtyard. The captain of the guard stood backed up against the barrack wall. Klasmonde was upbraiding him for the lack of progress on the wall, but to Ulcher, the rage seemed largely feigned. With a lunge, Klasmonde attacked the man. His long, clawlike nails dug into the soldier’s neck. As the captain writhed and crumpled, the lich seemed to grow, absorbing the blood strength of the dying man.
Ulcher drew back from the window, his face a study of indecision. In the past three days, Klasmonde had killed four minions and drew what power he could from each. None of them had offered much, but vast oceans were made up of single drops.
The mage had told him the portals might be opened at will by a creature of great power. Ulcher had made the suggestion in order to deflect the anger of his master while he searched for the secret. The horrible irony suddenly occurred to him. If Klasmonde Volkir decided to grab power where he could get it, even from his own minions, then Ulcher had put his own life in danger.
Thirteen
Czrak rolled in the thick mud near the southern edge of the swamp. His eight spider legs thrashed. His sluglike trunk moved slowly, though for him the effort was tantamount to a full tantrum.
That fool, Hernan Beekkoleran had committed the ultimate sin against the awnshegh; he had failed in his mission and had been killed in the process. Czrak regretted the death of the former mercenary. Hernan had been the strongest and most intelligent of his servants. The awnshegh had known of the mercenary’s ambitions, known he would have to kill Hernan sooner or later, but that privilege he had reserved for himself. Part of his rage came from the knowledge that the elves had taken that pleasure from him.
Only two of Hernan’s group had survived the battle in Sielwode, and they had attempted to escape Czrak’s wrath by running away. Luckily Czrak had anticipated some deserters and had stationed a party of gnolls at the entrance to the tunnels. They captured the human warriors and brought them back to the awnshegh.
The two men stood before him on a tussock clump and shook with fear. Their clothing was caked with soil. The dank, musty odor of the deep caverns still clung to their boots. Both were bleeding from small cuts. Demloke Winsin had an arrow wound in his arm.
“Th-the elves were everywh-where, as if they expected us,” the tallest, Demloke, stammered. His eyes were starting in terror. “Berdin, our group leader, charged ahead and ordered us to follow; Hernan Beekkoleran ordered us back. Some ran one way, some the other.”
“Some of the elves ran away. When we chased them, others dropped from the trees behind us….” Lishet Romeser babbled, but Czrak cut him off.
“I gave you protection!” he roared.