The Pantathian hissed, but a restraining gesture from the leader quieted him. Murmandamus sat back in his throne and silently brooded on his setback. His finest general lay dead, irretrievable even to those powers at his command. The balky clans of the north were demanding action, while the mountain clans were drifting away by the day, confounded by Murad’s death. Those who had come from the southern forests whispered among themselves of traveling the lesser passes back into the lands of men and dwarves, seeking to return to their homelands in the foothills near the Green Heart and among the highland meadows of the Grey Towers. Only the hill clans and the Black Slayers remained steadfast, and they were too small a force, despite their ferocity. No, the first battle had been lost. The chieftains before him demanded some promise, some sign or portent, to reassure their nervous alliances, before old feuds erupted. Murmandamus knew he could hold the armies here for only a few more weeks without marching. This for north, there were only two short months of warm weather left before the fall, then quickly the harsh northern winter would strike. If war was not forthcoming, to bring booty and plunder, the warriors would soon need to return to their homes. Finally Murmandamus spoke.
“O my children, the auguries are not in fruition.” Pointing above, the stars seen faintly against the glare of the camp’s fires, he continued. “The Cross of Fire heralds only the beginning. But we have not reached the time. Cathos says the fourth Bloodstone is not yet properly aligned. The lowest star will be in proper position at the summer solstice, next year. We cannot hurry the stars.” Inwardly he raged at the dead Murad for having failed him in so critical a mission. “We trusted our fate to one who acted too swiftly, who may have been uncertain in his resolve.” The chieftains exchanged glances. All knew Murad as one above reproach in visiting destruction on the hated humans. As if reading their minds, Murmandamus said, “For all his might, Murad underestimated the Lord of the West. That is why this human is to be feared, why he must be destroyed. With his death, the way south becomes open, for then shall we visit destruction upon all who oppose our will.”
Standing, he said, “But the time is not yet. We shall wait. Send home your warriors. Let them prepare against winter. But carry forth the word: let all the tribes and clans gather here next summer, let the confederations march with the sun when it again begins its journey south. For before next Midsummer’s Day, the Lord of the West shall die.” His voice rose in volume. “We were tested against the powers of our forefathers and found wanting. We were judged guilty of failing in our resolve. We shall not again so fail.” He struck fist to palm, his voice rising to a near-shriek. “In a year’s time we shall bring forth the news that the hated Lord of the West is destroyed. Then shall we march. And we shall not march alone. We shall call our servants, the goblins, the mountain trolls, the land-striding giants. All shall come to serve us. We shall march into human lands and burn their cities. I shall erect my throne upon a mountain of their bodies. Then, O my children, shall we spill blood.”
Murmandamus gave permission for the chieftains to withdraw. This year’s campaign was at an end. Murmandamus signaled to his guards to attend him as he swept past the crooked form of the serpent priest. Silently he brooded upon Murad’s death and the loss that death had caused. The Cross of Fire would look much as it did now for the next year and a bit more, so the lie about the configuration would hold. But time was now an enemy. A winter would be spent in preparation, and remembrance. No, this defeat would rankle as the freezing nights of winter slowly passed, but those nights would see the birth of another plan, which would bring the death of the Lord of the West, he who was the Bane of Darkness. And with that death, the onslaught against the nations of men would begin, and the killing would not halt until all lay prostrate at the feet of the moredhel, as was proper. And the moredhel would serve one master, Murmandamus. He turned and faced those most loyal to him. In the flickering light of their torches, madness danced in his eyes. His voice was the only sound in the ancient halls, a harsh whisper that grated upon the ear. “How many human slaves have our raiders captured to pull our siege engines?”
One of the captains said, “Several hundred, Master.”
“Kill them all. At once.”
The captain ran to carry out the order, and Murmandamus felt a lessening of the rage within as the prisoners’ deaths atoned for Murad’s failure. In near-hissing tones, Murmandamus said, “We have erred, O my children. Too soon did we gather to regain that which is rightfully our heritage. In a year, when the snows again have melted from the peaks, we again will gather, and then shall all who oppose us know terror.” He paced about the hall, a figure of stunning power, a fey brilliance surrounding him in an almost perceptible halo. His magnetism was nearly palpable. After a silent time, he spun toward the Pantathian. “We leave. Prepare the gate.”
The serpent nodded, while the Black Slayers took their positions along the wall. When each was situated in a niche, a field of green energy surrounded them. Each became rigid, a statue in his private nook, awaiting the summons that would come next summer.
The Pantathian finished a long incantation and a shimmering silver field appeared in the air. Without another word, Murmandamus and the Pantathian stepped through the gate, leaving Sar-Sargoth for some place known only to himself and Cathos. The gate winked out of existence.
Silence dominated the hall. Then, outside, the screams of the dying prisoners began to fill the night.