Thomas Reid - The Gossamer Plain

The rogue by the fireplace, deft on his feet, recovered quickly. In a blinding swirl of motion, he sent the net spinning, fanning out into a large circle. Aliisza sprinted and jumped, lifting herself off the ground. She tucked herself into a ball, desperate to evade the trap and break through.

She was a step too slow.

The net settled around her body, the weights attached to its edges pulling it tight. She thrashed and fought its confining embrace even as the rogue pulled on a trailing rope, yanking the net taut.

Unable to complete her leap to freedom, Aliisza jerked to a sudden stop and tumbled to the stone floor. She landed hard, absorbing most of the impact on one shoulder. She felt jarring, burning pain shoot through the joint and felt one of her wings crack as it bent at an angle beneath her weight. The pain nauseated her, and spots swam in her vision.

Fighting panic, Aliisza rolled to a sitting position to face her oncoming attackers. The ground seemed to have ceased pitching, and the trio was closing the distance with her. She fumbled to bring her magical blade to bear, trying to pull it free of the confining net, but the tangle of hemp strands made her efforts fruitless.

Aliisza gave up and frantically fumbled a hand toward one of her pouches. She knew a spell she could cast without speaking, one that would permit her to transform into a puddle of liquid. If she could summon the magic to do so, she reasoned, she might be able to slip away by oozing through the gap between the shutters. But she needed a pinch of gelatin to conjure the transformation. She slipped her hand inside the pouch and began fumbling for the packet of powder.

Her seemingly endless streak of bad luck continued.

The priestess, a lackey of Torm judging from the markings upon her breastplate, loomed over the half-fiend. She hit Aliisza hard on one shoulder with her mace. The blow hurt, knocking her back and sending the contents of her pouch tumbling onto the floor beneath the writing table in the center of the room. The crushing strike sent spidery pain all through the alu's body, unnatural holy burning that caused Aliisza to cry out, though no sound could escape her lips.

The alu tried to roll backward, to swing her feet over her head to end in a crouch, but the netting hindered her. In frustration, she kicked out at the priestess, but the woman sidestepped and smacked her mace against the half-fiend's ankle, sending another jolt of agonizing pain through her body.

As Aliisza crumpled in injury and exhaustion, the hateful priestess stood proudly over her, brandishing the blessed weapon. Something inside the alu, a deep-rooted survival instinct that she could feel but not understand, overcame her. She named it cowardice, an unwelcome trait undoubtedly inherited from her human father. She loathed herself for succumbing to it, even as she raised her arms in defeat.

The priestess never stopped smiling as she swung the heavy weapon down, slamming it into Aliisza's forehead.

All the world melted away in a torrent of pain and blackness.

"Remember, no unnecessary risks," Vhok instructed his lieutenant. "The legion will grow restless, but keep them out of sight." He gazed at the city of Sundabar in the distance, illuminated by watch fires along the walls.

Rorgak nodded. "They will question why," he said, giving Vhok an expectant glance.

"Theirs is not to question," the cambion snapped. "Explain to those who do that it had better not get back to me. The wait will be worth it."

A chill wind blew across the low hillock where he, his lieutenant, and Lysalis stood. Around the three of them, the half-frozen grasses of the Rauvin Valley rustled. The ice that coated the scrub crackled in the wind, reminding Vhok of dissonant bells. He shivered, finding the arctic breezes unpleasant on his hot skin.

"Make sure you maintain the illusion that I am still here," the cambion warned. "The tent and guards remain in place. I have set the wards to permit you to enter. The cloaking magic will keep prying eyes and ears from learning that you are actually alone when you 'receive' new orders from me."

The red-scaled, hulking tanarukk nodded again. "I will visit you daily," he said. Then, after a lingering silence, he asked, "What of Aliisza? What should I tell her if she returns?"

She won't, Vhok thought. Not if we're lucky. Out loud, he said, "Tell her the truth. Explain to her that I have undertaken a separate, secret mission to retrieve powerful magic to aid us in the impending conquest. She will discover it in due time herself, regardless. She has access to the tent."

"You don't think she's going to return," the tanarukk lieutenant said, as much a question as a statement.

Vhok shrugged, not wishing to give away what he already knew. "As always, she plots her own course, whatever instructions I give her. She… intrigues me that way," he said, more to himself than to his subordinate. It was a good lie, because it was still the truth.

Rorgak knew better than to respond to such a comment. Instead, the lieutenant asked, "How long will you be away?"

Vhok considered his answer before he lied again. "A day or two, maybe three."

Any longer, the cambion thought, and Rorgak might decide it was time to start commanding and do something impetuous. Vhok knew full well that the burly officer relished the chance to control the seething, war-crazed legion. He harbored no doubts that his lieutenant had designs of taking over for him some day-with or without Kaanyr Vhok's blessings.

Far in the future, Vhok silently insisted. I am not done with them yet.

"Good travels, then," Rorgak replied, saluting.

The cambion returned the gesture and looked at Lysalis. She mentally commanded the magic that whisked the two of them deep under the surface.

Rorgak's competence was already gone from the cambion's thoughts when he and his sorceress appeared upon the spiral steps within the abandoned Forge Tower. He could feel that the heat was more oppressive than the last time he had visited.

The fey'ri magic must be going well, he thought.

Vhok ascended the staircase and stepped into view of his minions, still hard at work magically disrupting the Everfire. He saw evidence of a recent battle atop the tower. One of the fey'ri sorcerers lay unmoving, his skin blackened, and several others showed signs of injuries. A pair of the demonic elves perched on the edge of the roof, wands in their hands, gazing down into the depths of the chamber below.

Lysalis surveyed the situation, examining the dead and wounded fey'ri and studying the floor far below. She turned to Vhok and caught his eye, then gave a jerk of her head to indicate that he should see what was transpiring. The cambion strolled to the edge and peered over the side.

The Everfire roared and bucked, sloshing scalding hot liquid rock. It swelled and spilled over the sides of its channel, sliding across the vast floor and cooling in uneven mounds. Dwarves had scattered throughout the cavern, furiously working to stop the onslaught of fiery destruction. Their efforts were hampered by the churning lava, the magical attacks from the sorcerers on the tower, and a horde of tanarukks that pressed the attack directly.

Some of the dwarves had formed a shield wall. They defended a second, smaller group from attack, fighting to keep the swarming tanarukks away from their charges while the smaller collection worked magic. The wizards, clerics, and sorcerers struggled to repel the mass of fiendish orcs. At the same time, they flung destructive magic at the sorcerers atop the tower.

Even as Vhok watched, a sizzling nugget of fire soared upward from the cluster of arcane spellcasters. He recognized the fireball well before it reached him. The cambion chuckled as the blast of searing fire erupted all around him. The burst singed the heated air, but he and his sorcerers remained unscathed.