Unholy howls from the senseless massacre still raked across Nariss Ford as I trailed back, followed by the Knight of Ash and Smoke. A thick cloud of apprehension still swirled around me. Sure, the Eldritch Knight has so far made no outright attempt at my life. Not even a sliver of antagonism trickled from him masked demeanour.
What was the nature of our alliance? Temporary ceasefire? Circumstantial friends? Or two enemies retreating under the same shroud of congeniality? Just sharpening our vile daggers on the same whetstone, poised ready to strike when the other turns their back?
“Mother Consort, I struggle to comprehend your goal,” said the Eldritch Knight with concern genuinely laced in his words.
For a brief moment, a heavy, ashen cloud of hesitation shrouded my decisions. How far could I trust a demon from an unknown realm? The answer was evident.
“None.” I replied without breaking stride, “Narris Ford is lost.”
“Your reasoning eludes me. From what I see, you have robbed the Demon Lord Aspirant of his patrons. Engaged in an escalating civil war, there will be no heavy reinforcement for him,” explained the armoured demon.
There was undeniable truth to his conclusion. After all, three factors boosted the One-Horned Warlord’s threat. His huge horde, the profane alliance of necromancers at his bidding and the support from demonic planes. Far behind me, away from Narris Ford, the echoes of demons slaughtering their kind still reverberated through the lands. Given the sudden turn of situations, the assistance from his patrons would be meagre at best.
As if reading my thoughts, he continued, “You should fear the necromancers.”
Something about the way he made the statement, there was steel in his tone. The edge to force one to consider his statements in earnest.
There was only a wide open maw of a ravenous, titanic creature, and I was treading a delicate balance. The plague that T’orrac and his druids concocted should be spread before the horde reached Narris Ford, for there is no benefit in unleashing a dreadful disease at an enemy knocking on the doors. Amidst the surging scent of blood and burning ashes in the battlefield, the terror of a dreaded plague will be ignored. For the plague to sink its blighted claws deeper; to erode the morale, requires time. Factoring in several details, infecting the horde before they reached the ford would have been the optimal solution.
Arlene, though being the obvious choice for carrying out infiltration and evading hostile pursuit, but given her birth conditions and her cursed heritage, the most prudent choice is to isolate her from the infectious grounds. And should the plague succed in razing through the horde like an untamed wildfire, Arlene should be actively discouraged from engaging in melee combat.
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Rodo’s nerves of steel will snap like a dried twig at the sight of undead. The fearful alpha werewolf would tremble like a feeble newborn kitten at the presence of liches. Kinemartophobia coiled around him like a vicious serpent, holding him, a thrall to his own irrational fears. At best, I can use Rodo and his pack as a shock troop for skirmishes, and only when the precise nature of the adversary is known with certainty.
Zaehran, the idealist monk, has been vocal in expressing his disapproval of my methods. Years of isolation, spent with honing whatever improvement of self that he, so evangelically advocates, has left his desperately disconnected from the brutal lethality of war. It would be wishful thinking to expect optimum result from a task assigned to an unwilling ally. I can expect Zaehran to fight with ardent fervour should the horde reach the Hold, but I cannot deploy the monk to hinder their advance.
Having exhausted my list of capable companions, Maapu, the battle addicted hobgoblin, would not be my first choice for any mission, nor will he be the last. The concept of strategic retreat does not bode well with him. He would stubbornly feed his festering pride, sacrifice himself and every single soul under his command, than sounding the horn to fallback. Only immediate supervision will keep the raging hobgoblin alive.
As for Captain Jorrell or Captain Hilam, competent as they might be, neither would fit the requirement.
I could request Ar’krak or Zurin from T’orrac, but giving command over my mercenaries to a party, only marginally allied and allegiances not to my cause, did not bode well with me.
All of which led to a bitter conclusion. I should take the assignment on myself. Even at a casual glance, this was a catastrophic decision. Especially, since in my absence, there is no suitable commanding authority to make decisions at High Crag Hold. My daughter would have been ideal. Intelligent and with a firm head above her shoulders, she would make the proper choices in my absence. In fact, had Delyn been by my side, I would have gladly handed over the reins to her capable hands. But instead, all I do is carry a flicker of hope that nothing happens that would require my immediate attention while I was away.
A huge thud, like the striking of a meteor, and one interminably faltering moment later, as the ashen dust cloud settled, the crumbled writhing form of Knight of Ash and Smoke laid on the ground; trembling. Collapsing on himself, his stone gauntlet encased fingers dug deeper into the rocky ground; desperately clenching tightly. Minute cracks ruptured on the polished surface of his gauntlet; leaching slowly towards his arms and shoulders.
“Consort Mother,” his said, stifling his pain.
Adjuration was out in my hands, ready to defend him from the ambush.
“Why have you doomed me?” he questioned over his agonising suffering.
Befuddlement coiled around me like twin serpents, leaving me tongue-tied at his words.
With a deep resonant knell, only broken obsidian-like shards, the remnants of his armour, was all that remained.
I shrugged, taking my mind off the scene I witnessed and whistled, summoning the goblin warg riders awaiting my command. Without a second thought to the fate of the Eldritch Knight, I gave the order to return to High-Crag Hold. After all, death is ephemeral for the demon.