Paul Thompson - The Wizard_s Fate

Tol lowered Early to the ground and removed his own furs and the kender’s. Sweat was beaded on the slumbering kender’s face.

The landing was fifty paces square, paved with alternating slabs of obsidian and white granite. Many were cracked with age, and tufts of stiff, brown grass sprouted through the gaps. A path had been worn across the landing; it led from where Tol stood to another set of ascending stairs. Another pair of eroded statues flanked the path. Winged creatures of indistinct form, they reminded Tol of the griffins Mandes had used to flee Daltigoth. The bluestone colossi were of an age with the lions he’d seen earlier. It was clear the ancient Irda had walked this way.

Hoisting Early to his shoulder again, he followed the well-worn path across the landing. He’d made it only halfway before a rapid flicker of heat on his face warned him that magic was at work. Fearing an ambush, he spun in half-circle, searching for the source.

A blur at the edge of his vision caught his eye. Tremors echoed through the ancient stone pavement. Something was moving around him-something big.

Unceremoniously, he dropped Early, and drew Number Six. There were two blurs, moving fast on his extreme left and right. Rather than attempt to follow their preternaturally quick movements, Tol stood still, both hands on his sword, facing forward. What horrors had Mandes conjured for him now?

— and then he saw it, huge and powerful, on his left. An ogre! Moving so quickly, it was invisible until just before attacking. Tol brought his sword up and received a crushing blow from the creature’s stone mace. He staggered backward.

The blur on his right resolved into a second ogre, armed with a saw-toothed sword as long as Tol was tall. Tol ducked the wicked blade and swung low. His saber caught the creature at the elbow. A man would have lost his arm, but the ogre wore slabs of nephrite sewn onto a crude leather jerkin. The pale green stone turned aside the dwarf-forged steel. Alarmed, Tol leaped back, dodging another blow from the first ogre’s mace. His massive opponents blurred into motion and disappeared.

No ogre was so fast! Mandes must have cast a spell on them.

Tol swept the air with his blade, backing rapidly away from the center of the open square. He was too slow. The sword-wielding ogre flashed into sight just behind him. His saw-toothed weapon raked down Tol’s back, tearing open his tunic. The mail shirt he wore underneath saved his life, but his right shoulder was badly cut. He staggered and fell.

The second ogre’s mace passed through the space Tol’s head had just occupied. Tol felt the wind of its passing tug at his hair.

He rolled, thrusting awkwardly at the mace-bearer. The saber found a gap in the ogre’s stone armor, below his waist, and plunged in deep. The ogre bellowed and swatted at his tormentor.

Blood running down his shoulder, Tol recovered and got to his feet in one motion. He held his sword, stained with blood, straight out in front of him.

The mace-wielder howled in fury and launched himself at his smaller foe. The wound in his gut scarcely slowed him as he blurred to a gray shadow. Tol moved to meet him. They collided, and Tol found his face buried in stinking ogre hide. He gasped with the impact. The hulk grunted as well, in astonishment. Number Six had penetrated his torso front to back, piercing his heart along the way. The ogre teetered, then collapsed, taking Tol down with it.

He levered the enormous corpse off even as the second monster attacked. Tol rolled left and right as the saw-toothed sword came down again and again, gouging chips from the paving with every blow. Tol slashed hard at the creature’s blunt, hideous face, destroying an eye and laying open the flesh to the bone.

The ogre screamed with pain and fury. He thrust his weapon at Tol. It had a blunt tip, but backed by the muscle of the enraged ogre, made a powerful bludgeon. The thrust caught Tol square in the chest. The impact was terrific. He flew backward several paces, landed flat on his back, and slid across the pavers.

Tol tried to rise but couldn’t. Nor could he breathe; the blow had driven all the breath from his body. Gasping frantically, he heard the heavy tread of the ogre’s approach.

Get up, get up! Do you want to die?

In his mind Tol heard the disgusted voice of Egrin exhorting him, back when he was a raw recruit. He managed to roll onto his side, but that was all he could do. The dark bulk of the ogre blotted out the weird white light of the cloud-veiled sky-Instead of delivering the killing blow, the creature let out a surprisingly high-pitched shriek and reeled away, clawing at its back. It spun wildly in a circle, howling like a demon.

Clinging to the ogre’s back was Early Stumpwater, who had awoken with a vengeance. The kender gripped the ogre’s stiff gray hair with one hand; with the other, he drove his short saber repeatedly into the monster’s neck.

Tol recovered his sword and charged, roaring defiance. He had to parry several ferocious swipes of the saw-toothed sword, but succeeded in getting on the ogre’s blind side, and thrust home. His point took the monster under the arm. The ogre shuddered violently and collapsed face down on the ancient pavement.

Panting in the thin mountain air, chest deeply bruised from the blow he’d taken, Tol pulled Early off the ogre’s carcass. Only then did he see the awful wound across the kender’s back made by a desperate swipe of the ogre’s sword.

“Early!” he said frantically. “Can you speak?”

“ Whatcha want to talk about?” Early’s voice was weak and blood flecked his lips.

“Hold on! I’ll bind your wound-”

“Don’t bother. He cannot survive.”

The voice came from Early’s mouth but it was Felryn’s deep, rich tones. Tol regarded the kender with anguish.

“I’m sorry!” he said. “I meant to protect you-both of you!”

“Don’t be foolish,” his old friend replied. “You can’t protect the entire world.” The kender’s back arched in a flash of sudden agony, and Felryn added, “I must go. He hasn’t long… you’ll be on your own soon, my friend. Farewell!”

“Wait, don’t go! I need you!”

Early’s eyes closed. When they opened again, Tol knew Felryn’s spirit had departed and Early was himself again.

“Ain’t that a pain?” Early muttered. “All messed up, and I don’t remember how I got this way.”

“You saved my life.”

“I did?” The kender uttered a cheerful obscenity. “What a story that’ll make. Tell everyone…”

His voice trailed away.

“I will,” Tol vowed and closed Early’s lifeless eyes.

The wound on his shoulder was burning and his ribs ached, but Tol got stiffly to his feet. Sword firmly in hand, he started up the last set of steps. Mist flowed around his ankles. A profound stillness covered the plateau. All he could hear was his own labored breathing and the hollow echo of his booted feet striking stone. This set of steps seemed as long as the first, but they ended at last on a landing smaller than the one before. The fortress loomed just across the landing.

The main gate stood open.

Bright steel flashed to and fro as Tol swept his blade ahead of him in search of unseen enemies. He found only empty air.

Beyond the darkened doorway was a narrow courtyard.

Tall, rounded doorways were cut from the native stone on both sides of the passage. Along the walls were sconces, empty of torches. The sconces seemed of a piece with the walls. The entire fortress had that look, and Tol recalled legends that said the Irda were able to soften stone, mold it to any shape, then harden it again.

A low, indistinct sound from behind one of the doors on his right drew his attention. He kicked open the door. A quartet of shabbily dressed humans, servants by the look of them, were cowering on the floor of the small room. The sight of the bloodstained swordsman set them all to screaming and wailing.