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The wind sweeping her hair to the side, Nera stood atop the roof of Olso Fortress’ keep. Grabbing a fistful of small pebbles from her leather pouch, Nera tossed them a few feet in front of her. They made a dull clattering sound as they scattered. She hunched over the smooth stones now lying on the rooftop. Each had a rune etched upon it, which, depending on its position in relation to Nera, celestial bodies, the other runes cast, and a host of other factors, could mean any number of things.
Like most tools used in divination, runes could be ambiguous, and even the wisest druids were prone to misinterpreting their messages. Nera’s skill in reading runes was good, but not remarkable. Yet in this matter she could trust no other seers. It had to be her.
The first rune Nera’s eyes rested upon was harvest. Pensively, she bit her lip. That could be good or ill. Next was consumption. No, when it touched the rune for smoke it meant burning. Yes, consumption was touching smoke so the two runes together meant burning. Nera’s attention darted back to the rune for harvest. She noted harvest was a little farther from her than burning, and to her left. She would try to determine the significance of that after taking in some of the other signs.
Black, strength, and age were three runes clustered together. Near these was the directional rune. It was facing away from black, strength, and age which could be taken to mean under or above. What the directional rune pointed to was journey. Should Nera take the combination to mean flight as in; the old black strength flies, or dig as in; the black age digs with strength? She was still puzzling over what to do with harvest and burning.
Nera turned away from the runes for a moment to clear her thoughts. Surrounding her and Olso Fortress were the precipitous snowy heights of the Wyrmwind Peaks. There were few birds out to consult for augury in the frigid air. Perhaps that meant what she was seeking should be sought beneath the earth. There were numerous caves throughout the mountains, and there were the silver mines as well. Yes, that made sense. She would harvest the old black strength beneath the earth. Now what did burning mean?
There were six letter runes scattered among the others. Nera tried to sort them out to make a discernable word. Was the word she was trying to form even in her own tongue?
“Vozzab?” Nera said aloud.
The sorceress knew that name. Songs, legends, Vozzab had his place in myth.
“Vozzab!” Nera’s heart pounded in her chest.
Scooping the runes back into her pouch, Nera proceeded to one of the turrets at the corner of the keep. She barely registered opening the door and descending the stairs back into the depths of the keep as her thoughts were consumed by this revelation. She needed to tell Alvir. This was what she had been hoping to discover.
As Nera hurried down the stairs and into a corridor at the ground level, a Nordsman warrior jumped out of her way as if trying to avoid a raging bull. A small goblin slave did not notice Nera’s approach as he scrubbed the floor, and she knocked the unfortunate creature aside with a swift kick to the ribs. Yelping, the pale greenish critter scurried away, dropping a few musty soiled rags from the pile in his crooked limbs as he went.
Nera passed other creatures in service to the Nordsmen; orcs, dwarves, the descendants of other races of men captured in raids generations ago. All gave way in fear of Nera, her position, and her power. Some of the orcs, dwarves, and other Nordsmen did not fear Nera so much that they refused to meet her gaze, but almost every goblin and human outside the Nordsman race who resided in the lands of the Five Clans was a slave. They knew that to look a free Nordsman in the eye was to invite the harshest of punishments.
Entering the great hall, Nera caught sight of her husband sitting on his throne atop a dais near the back of the chamber. A cyclops chieftain knelt before Alvir, a curious sight given the cyclops’ hulking form, even when making gestures of submission. Glancing at Nera from between the cyclops chieftain’s kinsmen, Alvir signaled the brute to rise.
“I accept your tribe’s vows of fealty.” Alvir gestured to the cyclopes. “I will require your aid soon, but we will all share in the spoils.”
The cyclopes nodded dimly, though the chieftain appeared to grasp more of what was said than his comrades. With a wave, Alvir dismissed the cyclopes. An honor guard of heavily armored orcish oath-warriors escorted the cyclopes out of the great hall back to their own lands. Nera watched the procession with mild interest.
“You are building up the Clans’ strength with astonishing speed,” the sorceress noted once the visitors had left. “Orc oath-warriors, cyclops chieftains, are there any who will not kneel before your banner?”
“Envoys to the necromancers have...not returned,” Alvir conceded.
This was no surprise to Nera. It was likely that the Clan ambassadors never made it past the uncaring necromancers’ zombie thralls once they entered the Blighted Lands. The undead had an insatiable hunger for living flesh.
“No matter,” Nera dismissed the grisly fate of the Nordsman envoys. “You have managed to win over or beat down all rivals within the Five Clans, and now you are extending your influence over others who would heed the dark gods’ call.”
“But is it enough to crush Azgald?” Alvir grimaced. “They are few in number, but their knights are among the best in the world. And the Silver Suns...”
Approaching the throne, Nera shushed Alvir with a consoling finger to her lips. She was mere inches in front of her husband now, and gave a sharp look to Alvir’s guards in the corners of the room. Not needing any clearer instructions, the guards instantly vacated the great hall. It was just Alvir and Nera in the chamber now.
This was not the first time Nera had seen her husband like this. Alvir was cunning and ruthless, but Nera knew him to sometimes be shortsighted or to despair when the challenge appeared too great. But Nera was always there to encourage him, to help him find a way...or to make one.
“Remember how the Duke of Pavik hurt you?” Nera traced her finger across an old faded scar on Alvir’s neck. “You wanted revenge right away. You wanted your warriors to launch an immediate attack.”
“But you advised patience.” Alvir’s jaw tightened. “Tancred is a vile beast, not a man. We should have known that when he refused to give his daughter to you. You knew who Tancred’s daughter really was. You could have taught her so much...”
“That does not matter now,” Nera whispered in Alvir’s ear as she caressed him. “The Clans and Azgald ultimately cannot share the Nordslands. Tancred has dealt these wounds to us, but he will soon regret it. All our patience and planning will be rewarded. A thousand horse-mounted knights could not defeat the great Vozzab.”
“Vozzab?” Alvir repeated, comprehension dawning across his face.
“I have seen it in the runes.” Nera hefted her pouch.
“Can he be made to serve us?” Alvir began thinking of the possibilities.
“I can ensnare him.” Nera smiled. “With time and preparation it can be done.”
“How?” Alvir wondered. “Vozzab is one of the children of the gods. You can bend such power to our ends?”
“It’s more of a pact,” Nera said, clarifying her earlier statement. “If an appropriate sacrifice is offered, then Vozzab may be willing to grant us a boon.”
“Will that not make Yoan jealous if we abandon her in preference for Vozzab’s service?” Alvir countered. “We have called on her for our help thus far, and we have seen success.”
“Vozzab is a son of Yoan.” Nera was ready for this objection. “To honor Vozzab is to honor Yoan. Besides, Yoan may very well be leading us to her son. In any case, we must seize what opportunities present themselves while we can.”
“The sacrifice we must make,” Alvir started.
“The sacrifice must be an enemy of Vozzab.” Nera toyed with the dragon pendant her husband wore around his neck. “And Vozzab has many enemies in Azgald.”
“The Duke of Pavik,” Alvir suggested. “That would satisfy the demands of vengeance.”
“It could be anyone in his bloodline,” Nera added. “Perhaps his daughter might be more appropriate given her special qualities.”
“Vozzab would prefer someone with her gifts?” Alvir prodded.
“Of course,” Nera answered. “Tancred’s daughter would make an ideal sacrifice to Vozzab.”
“Where can we find Vozzab?” Alvir’s excitement was beginning to show.
“The children of the gods often slumber under the earth,” Nera explained. “And the runes have made clear that Vozzab is there now.”
“The mines!” Alvir exclaimed.
“The omens led us here to Olso after all,” Nera concurred. “But how he was not discovered here before, I cannot say.”
“Perhaps no one thought to seek him out before now,” Alvir mused.
“Let’s find out,” Nera agreed.
The two hurriedly left the great hall, making for the stairs. Down through the armories, store rooms, and dungeons they went. The industry beneath Olso fortress was almost as great as that which was above. There was the rushing air of bellows as furnaces were fueled. There was the hammering of blacksmiths as they worked on steel. There was also the scream of prisoners as torturers worked on them.
Alvir grabbed a torch straight out of the hand of a passing orc as he and Nera made their way through one of the forges closer to the mines. The orc’s beady eyes narrowed in fear as he stood paralyzed on the spot. Alvir paid the brute no further attention, and Nera caught what almost looked like relief cross the creature’s scarred reddish face as they walked on.
Closer to the surface, the ground was slick. The frost permeating the soil was being melted by the fires of activity that heated the air in the tunnels. However, as Nera and Alvir descended farther it grew quieter, darker, and colder. Now only the sounds of shovels, picks, and other tools mixed with the occasional grunted exchanges between miners could be heard.
Alvir and Nera did not have to go far to find the miners themselves. They were mostly dwarves and goblins, beings better suited to small, dark confines than men were. The miners busied themselves with the strenuous tasks of breaking ore from the tunnel walls, and separating it from dirt and rocks before sending the precious silver up to the forges in wheeled carts for refining. Taskmasters, mostly goblins, were set over the miners, ensuring the quality of the miners’ work with sharp cracks of their whips.
“Who is in charge here?” Alvir brandished his torch.
“I am Overseer Dresk.” One of the goblins with a whip bowed to Alvir.
The goblin’s yellowish complexion almost appeared white in the dim torchlight. The other goblins were of varying hues, like most of their kind in Clan territory. Though the color of an orc, goblin, cyclops, or troll might tell someone what region the creature may have originated from, the Nordsmen’s robust slave trade ensured a great deal of variation among their servile class. Dresk, though a taskmaster, was also a slave judging by the brand upon his neck. The best slaves were those who could be controlled by their own.
“What can you tell us about this mine?” Alvir pressed.
“Though long used, this mine still yields great quantities of fine silver.” Dresk gestured at the tunnel walls around him. “Our mine shafts run deep, but the alchemists believe that there are yet greater reserves of silver to be found.”
“Are there any natural caves which are a part of this mine?” Nera wondered, gazing farther down the tunnel. “Are there any which might lead to the surface?”
“There are natural caves...” Dresk thought for a moment. “Some of them are quite large. Some of them may lead to the surface. We have had tunnels near them collapse, so we have avoided those areas. I lost more than thirty slaves and two taskmasters in one cave-in a few weeks ago.”
“You will start unsealing those collapsed tunnels,” Nera ordered. “Use all the slaves you can spare, even if it means reducing our silver output.”
“Of course, my lady.” Dresk kept his eyes low. “Might I inquire what my lady is searching for?”
“Vozzab.” Nera’s terse response made the goblin shiver.
Dresk swallowed hard. Goblins and dwarves knew that name well. Such names were used by the subterranean races in tales of entire underground kingdoms being destroyed, or foolish adventurers meeting horrific ends. These stories were used to scare their young into behaving, to prevent them from wandering too far into unexplored caverns, or to reverence the children of the gods. Nera gave a cruel smile at these thoughts.
“My lady,” Dresk’s voice quivered. “I will do your bidding without question, but should we awaken Vozzab, not one stone of Olso will be left standing upon another.”
“I will make sure you don’t,” Nera reassured the overseer. “My magic will make your miners as silent as death.”
“But still,” Dresk continued. “Some of the miners may be too frightened to cooperate.”
“Then I suggest you do not tell the miners what it is they are searching for.” Nera’s words forced a grimace across the goblin’s face.