"The book is excising its own dweomers," Arrayan said. "It is enacting the magic Zhengyi placed within its pages."
"You were but a catalyst," Wingham added, nodding his head as if it was all starting to make sense to him. "It took from you a bit of your life-force and now it is using that to facilitate Zhengyi's plans."
"What plans?" asked Olgerkhan.
"The magic was in the school of creation," Arrayan replied.
"And it is creating a structure," said Mariabronne as he moved the length of the foundation stones. "Something large and formidable."
"Castle Perilous," muttered Wingham, and all three looked at him with great alarm, for that was a name not yet far enough removed from the consciousness of the region for any to comfortably hear.
"We do not yet know anything of the sort," Mariabronne reminded him. "Only that the book is creating a structure. Such artifacts are not unknown. You have heard of the work of Doern, of course?"
Arrayan nodded. The legendary wizard Doern had long ago perfected a method of creating minor extra-dimensional towers adventurers could summon to shield them from the dangers and hardships of the open road.
"It is possible that Zhengyi created this tome, perhaps with others like it, so that his commanders could construct defensible fortresses without the need of muscle, tools, supplies, and time," Mariabronne reasoned, edging ever closer to the fascinating book. "It could be, Wingham, that your niece Arrayan has done nothing more than build herself a new and impressive home."
Wingham, too, moved to the book, and from up close the rising, dissipating runes showed all the more clearly. Individual, recognizable characters became visible. Wingham started to wave his hand over the field of power above the opened book.
What little hair the old half-orc had stood on end and he gave a yelp then went flying back and to the ground. The other three were there in a moment, Arrayan helping him to sit up.
"It seems that Zhengyi's book will protect itself," Mariabronne remarked.
"Protect itself while it does what?" Wingham asked, his teeth chattering from the jolt.
All four exchanged concerned glances.
"I think it is time for me to ride to the Vaasan Gate," Mariabronne said.
"Past time," Arrayan agreed.
Mariabronne and Wingham dropped Arrayan and Olgerkhan at the woman's house then went to the south gate of Palishchuk and to Wingham's wagons beyond.
"My horse is stabled in the city," Mariabronne protested repeatedly, but Wingham kept waving the thought and the words away.
"Just follow," he instructed. "To all our benefit."
When they arrived at Wingham's wagon, the old half-orc rushed inside, returning almost immediately with a small pouch.
"An obsidian steed," he explained, reaching into the leather bag and pulling forth a small obsidian figurine depicting an almost skeletal horse with wide, flaring nostrils. "It summons a nightmare that will run tirelessly—well, at least until the magic runs out, but that should be long after the beast has taken you to the Vaasan Gate."
"A nightmare?" came the cautious response. "A creature of the lower planes?"
"Yes, yes, of course, but one controlled by the magic of the stone. You will be safe enough, mighty ranger."
Mariabronne gingerly took the stone and cradled it in his hands.
"Just say 'Blackfire, " Wingham told him.
"Blackfi—" Mariabronne started to reply, but Wingham cut him short by placing a finger over his lips.
"Speak it not while you hold the stone, unless you are ready to be ridden yourself," the half-orc said with a chuckle. "And please, do not summon the hellish mount here in my camp. I do so hate when it chases the buyers away."
"And eats more than a few, I am sure."
"Temperamental beast," Wingham confirmed.
Mariabronne tapped his brow in salute and started away, but Wingham grabbed him by the arm.
"Discretion, I beg," the old half-orc pleaded.
Mariabronne stared at him for a long while. "To diminish Arrayan's involvement?"
"She began it," Wingham said, and he glanced back toward the city as if Arrayan was still in sight. "Perhaps she is feeding it with her very life-force. The good of all might weigh darkly on the poor girl, and she is without fault in this."
Again Mariabronne paused a bit to study his friend. "The easy win, at the cost of her life?" he asked, and before Wingham could answer, he added, "Zhengyi's trials have often proved a moral dilemma to us all. Mayhaps we could defeat this construct, and easily so, but at the cost of an innocent."
"And the cost of our own souls for making that sacrifice," said Wingham.
Mariabronne offered a comforting smile and nodded his agreement. "I will return quickly," he promised.
Wingham glanced back to the north again, as if expecting to see a gigantic castle looming over the northern wall of the city.
"That would be wise," he whispered.
Just south of Wingham's wagon circle, Mariabronne lifted the obsidian steed in both his cupped hands. "Blackfire," he whispered as he placed the figurine on the ground, and he nearly shouted as the stone erupted in dancing black and purple flames. Before he could react enough to fall back from the flames, though, he realized that they weren't burning his flesh.
The flames flared higher. Mariabronne watched, mesmerized.
They leaped to greater proportions, whipping about in the evening breeze, and gradually taking the form of a horse, a life-sized replica of the figurine. Then the fires blew away, lifting into the air in a great ball that puffed out to nothingness, leaving behind what seemed to be a smoking horse. The indistinct edges of wispy smoke dissipated, and a more solid creature stood before the ranger, its red eyes glaring at him with hate, puffs of acrid smoke erupting from its flared nostrils, and gouts of black flame exploding from its hooves as it pawed at the ground.
"Blackfire," Mariabronne said with a deep exhale, and he worked very hard to calm himself.
He reminded himself of the urgency of his mission, and he moved slowly and deliberately, fully on guard and with his hand on the pommel of Bayurel, his renowned bastard sword, a solid, thick blade enchanted with a special hatred for giantkin.
Mariabronne swallowed hard when he came astride the nightmare. He gingerly reached up for the creature's mane, which itself seemed as if it was nothing more than living black fire. He grabbed tightly when he felt its solidity, and with one fluid move, launched himself upon the nightmare's back. Blackfire wasted no time in rearing and snorting fire, but Mariabronne was no novice to riding, and he held firm his seat.
Soon he was galloping the fiery steed hard to the south, the shadows of the Galenas bordering him on his left, the city of Palishchuk and the Great Glacier fast receding behind him. It was normally a five-day journey, but the nightmare didn't need to rest, didn't let up galloping at all. Miles rolled out behind the ranger. He took no heed of threats off to the side of the trail—a goblin campfire or the rumble of a tundra yeti—but just put his head down and let the nightmare speed him past.
After several hours, Mariabronne's arms and legs ached from the strain, but all he had to do was conjure an image of that magical book and the structure it was growing, all he had to do was imagine the danger that creation of the Witch-King might present, to push past his pain and hold fast his seat.
He found that Wingham's estimation was a bit optimistic, however, for he felt the weakening of the magic in his mount as the eastern sky began to brighten with the onset of dawn. No stranger to the wilderness, Mariabronne pulled up in his ride and scanned the area about him, quickly discerning some promising spots for him to set a camp. Almost as soon as he dismounted, the nightmare became a wavering black flame then disappeared entirely.