no more dead. The numbers of dead will become finite, and eventually, no more souls will come to you. I know what you are doing. I know Thet has nothing to do with it.”
“Ask your question,” said the Lich with some anger.
“The Grimstone. An army from the mist uses it to lay siege to our world. They have but one piece, and there are two more. Do you know it? Do you know where the other two pieces are?”
“I know of this stone. It is almost as old as I. Indeed, one of the winged people came through Mort A’ghas. His soul knew much… where it came from… who crafted it. But I will give you only that which you seek.”
“Yes.” Pim nodded.
“The winged people took the pieces to the ends of the world. One is found, one was returned from whence it came, and the last is where you heart is, Wivering. It is, at times, in your feet, and was, at times, beneath them.”
“From whence it came? I know that place. The shores of the Baltha Sea in the west. It washed up on the shores. It lies across the sea?”
The Lich nodded its cowl.
“The last piece? Where my heart is? Again, with the riddles. I do not understand. What does this mean?”
“You already know.”
“But I—“
“Enough. Your welcome in this church wears thin.”
Pim noticed that the undead had gathered around him. Desiccated faces leered at him, hollow eyes, gaping wounds, wringing hands. He backed away from them, glancing over to the window. The Lich Lord was gone.
The young Wivering moved to the archway leading back outside, and ran. His feet carried him back over the deep swamp waters, and land rushed toward him.
He grimaced, his eyes burned, his chest heaved. He tried to stop, but tripped over his feet, hitting a tree root. He ended up landing face-first in the mud.
“Pim! Pim!” Tolan ripped him out of the mud. “Are you alright?”
Pim gasped for air. Fatigue wracked his body; his arms and legs felt as if they weighed more than a hundred Wivering. He wiped the mud from his eyes, and smiled up at Tolan. “I know where we must go next.”
###
A wave of fireballs scorched across the sky and crashed into Sooth-Malesh’s magic barrier, crackling before they vanished. The barrier held—for now.
Neshing catapults launched spiked boulder after spiked boulder. Each one crumbled into pieces upon hitting the barrier.
The Neshing screamed as their mages focused their attention on the magic surrounding Cardoon. The legion of monstrous warriors grew outraged, rushing the barrier and squirming against it like trapped rats.
Sooth-Malesh turned from the rampart and headed down the stairs. In the courtyard, Jorrel and the Cardoon cavalry prepared to slip, undetected, through the back of the city.
“Now is the time,” Jorrel said to Sooth-Malesh. “While the majority of their forces concentrate on our city.”
Sooth-Malesh wove his hand over the soldiers. His eyes flashed. “I cast my protection over you. The closer you get to the stone, the weaker my magic will get.”
Jorrel nodded. “We understand, Mage.”
“You understand what you ride into? The stone will be protected. You may never set eyes on it, and you may never return.”
Jorrel turned to the old mage. “We have not heard from Tolan and his group in some time. They may never return either, but they did not turn their backs. They did not halt their steps, and neither do we.”
“May Thet be with you.” Sooth-Malesh led the horsemen to the far wall. “Temporary passage will open in the barrier. Ride like the wind.”
“May Thet be with us all,” Jorrel said. “Protect Cardoon for as long as you can. Captain Sundar and the High Guard will be at your service, as well as the remaining Northerners and Southerners.”
Sooth-Malesh nodded and pushed the rear gates. The shadow of the spires darkened the threshold.
Jorrel led his men out into open land, through the barrier and around the back walls of the city. The cavalry sped through quiet farmland and headed for Gravik’s Spade: the chasms would provide perfect cover for the desperate band and its mission.
The wind lashed at Jorrel’s face. The leader of the High Guard, and now this mission, looked back at Cardoon, watching it grow smaller and smaller, all except for the spires, the towers of magic.
Rain spit into Jorrel’s face like some cruel God toying with him and his men. Above the howl of the wind and the clop of his horse, he could still hear the siege of the Neshing