Stormblade

23

Gneiss of the Daewar made his way through the crooked alleys and paths created by the hastily built field-keeper’s huts that lined the walls of the East Farming Warrens. There will not be air enough for a dwarf to breathe, he had said. Even he admitted that the complaint was hyperbole, but each time he came into the farming warrens the thought growled in his mind.

The eight hundred human refugees had managed to settle quickly. The youngest children, those who were not out in the fields with the men, scampered through the tangle of huts, their cries high and loud, echoing around the cavern walls and flying up to the roof many hundreds of feet above. Women tended the stock, the few dozen horses needed for ploughing, a rowdy herd of goats, and far, far too many chickens and ducks.

Damn place looks and smells like a ragged border town on the edge of nowhere! A note of reluctant admiration crept into the Daewar’s thoughts. Reorx knew, it didn’t take them long to recover from their trek across the Outlands.

Though the fields were not at all what these human farmers were used to, they’d adapted quickly to the level acres of deep black soil transported into the warrens many years ago and replenished and refreshed seasonally from the valley outside Southgate. No stone fouled the plough blades, not even the smallest grade challenged the horses or their ploughmen. Gneiss stopped at the edge of a newly furrowed field. The dark soil glistened under the light from the many crystal shafts high above. Boys with large, heavy canvas seed pouches slung over their shoulders followed the carefully laid lines of the furrows, sowing to the left and right as they walked. Soon the wealthy black soil would be covered with a tender green carpet of new-growing wheat. Beyond this field they planted corn, and in the cavern into which this one led, millet, hay and pasturage for the stock would soon thrive.

Yes, they were doing well, Goldmoon’s people. One could almost believe that Mesalax had blessed their efforts. One could almost believe that the Plainswoman did, indeed, have the goddess’s favor. Almost. Gneiss snorted. He hadn’t heard that one of the gifts Mesalax granted her clerics was the ability to enchant thanes. And Hornfel was enchanted. These days it seemed that he spent more time here among the refugee farmers than in the upper cities.

And me, the Daewar thought, I have to drag down here after him like some errand lad each time I want to speak a word to him! Courting allies, he says. The best way to gain an ally is to know him, he says. Hah! What kind of allies will these ragtag refugees make? Damn poor ones, I’ll wager.

Raucous and high, a child’s shriek of laughter preceded her as she pelted out from behind a hut, head down and arms flailing. She bowled into Gneiss before the Daewar could turn, staggering him, and she tumbled to the ground.

He snatched up the child by her elbows and dumped her unceremoniously on her feet again. “Easy with your wild running, lass! You’ve two eyes—use them!”

The two eyes so noted, wide and blue as the sea, stared at Gneiss as the girl edged cautiously toward the field.

All skinny legs and skinnier arms, Gneiss thought. Someone ought to think about feeding the thing. And what have they cut the creature’s hair with? A saw’s blade by the look of it.

“Hold still a moment, will you?”

The girl stopped where she stood and pushed ragged black hair back from her face.

“I’m looking for Goldmoon and—” He smiled sourly “—her prisoner Hornfel. Where are they?”

“Prisoner?” The girl’s eyes grew, if possible, wider with sudden laughter. “Oh, yer jokin’, Grandfather.”

“Grandfather!”

She pointed with a grubby finger to his long, graying beard. Gneiss’s eyes narrowed against an unbidden smile. Impudent little scamps shouldn’t be encouraged, aye, by no means.

The impudent scamp’s face split in a grin. “I know where they are. I’ll take you.”

“Aye,” the dwarf growled, “and then you’d better be taking yourself off to your mother for a wash and a combing, eh?”

She shook her head and shrugged in the most matter-of-fact manner.

“Can’t do it, grandfather.”

“Can’t you? Why not?”

“The lady Goldmoon says m’ mother an’ m’ father have gone to be with Mishakal.” The child’s expression clouded. “I think they’re dead.”

So saying, the girl scampered away, and Gneiss had to step quickly to catch up. The children of war are fatalists, he reminded himself. He’d seen it often enough and had never become used to it, warrior though he was. Gneiss followed the child through the winding, newly made streets to a field-keeper’s hut, low-roofed and featureless, no different than all the others. Inside the tiny hut, he found Hornfel seated with the Plainswoman at a table. The half-elf was on his heels by the door, there being no place else to sit, fletching arrows with the absent skill of one who performs the chore as much to pass the time as to keep his weapons in good order. Though fox-haired Tanis and Goldmoon were often seen together as the leaders of these refugees, rumor had it that there was a great and brooding Plainsman about somewhere who might well have the right to call Goldmoon his lady. In fact, there were nine people in this motley band who had rescued the slaves from Verminaard’s mine. Gneiss had only met and spoken with the half-elf and Goldmoon. The other seven either had business of their own or were happy enough to leave the matter of negotiations to these two.

It’s just as well they did, Gneiss thought. He’d heard that one among the party was a hill dwarf of the ill-famed Fireforge clan. He’d no interest at all in speaking with a hill dwarf, let alone in being in the same room with one whose grandfather had fought against the mountain dwarves in the Dwarf gate Wars.

Yes, and here sits Hornfel, the Daewar thought, taking a cup of spirits with Outlanders! As though there were nothing else to concern him or the council but finding a pleasant way to pass the afternoon!

Gneiss regretted his assessment when he saw his friend’s eyes. The dark shadows in the Hylar’s eyes told of heavy matters discussed. Goldmoon smiled and gestured Gneiss into the hut as though the tiny place were hers and she were proud to welcome a guest.

“You are looking for your friend? You may accurately accuse me of selfishness, Thane Gneiss. I have kept him here too long.”

Chieftain’s daughter was her proper title. Gneiss thought that he would like to have known her father, if only to meet the man who so well trained Goldmoon to this regality.

“Aye, lady. We’ve had a need of him. Hornfel,” he said, “word has come from the border. Guyll fyr’.” He’d spoken the words in Dwarven and was surprised when the half-elf reacted.

“Wildfire?” Tanis, his green eyes sharp, addressed Gneiss. “Where?”

“Running down the hills west of the Plains of Death. Two border patrols reported seeing it last night. It has the wind behind it now and is moving fast.”

Faster than the wind before which it ran, Gneiss thought. He’d seen the fire at dawn from the Northgate walls. Garish light leaping for the soft opal sky, the guyll fyr had looked like a sea of flame, its waves lapping at the forest shore of the mountains’ feet. Smoke, thick and black, rose in columns to the sky or streamed out ahead of the rampaging flame as it danced with the cold winds whirling above the Plains of Death. It’s lurid glare and deadly smoke had made the dawn’s light seem a pale and sickly thing.

Gneiss turned to Hornfel. “You’re needed in the council chambers, my friend. That and other matters want your attention.”

Goldmoon, she of the silver-gilt hair and wide blue eyes, rose from the shaky-legged table where she sat. “The fire.”

Gneiss nodded gruffly. “Aye, lady?”

“How did it start? Do you know?”

“No, lady, but you and yours are safe enough here.” He saw Hornfel grimace and shrugged. “That was your concern?”

“No,” she said softly. “I know we are safe here. I know, too, what happens when wildfire hits the plains. I’ve seen it, but never this late in the season.”

“You’re thinking of Verminaard’s dragons, are you?”

“I am.”

“Aye, well, I’ve had the same thought, lady.” For Hornfel’s sake, for his friend seemed to value this Plainswoman, this so-called cleric of Mesalax, Gneiss tried for a more formal tone. “Lady Goldmoon, this is a council matter. I hope you will grant us your leave.”

Goldmoon said nothing, but when Hornfel and Gneiss left the cramped little hut, Tanis went with them. Hornfel seemed to have no objection and Gneiss did not protest, but only kept a little ahead, preoccupied with wondering why his words had sounded so churlish in his own ears. Thorbardin was made up of six small cities deep inside the mountain. These cities connected to each other and the several auxiliary halls and two great gates by a series of roads and transport shafts, which the two dwarves knew well. They took their roads seemingly without thinking, as those do who are born and have lived all their lives in such a place. The noise of the merchants square and the quiet of the gardens moved around them like sunlight and shadows.

Tanis walked quietly behind the two thanes, well content with his observations and his own thoughts. As the three stepped onto a short, narrow bridge spanning the fathoms-deep main cavern in which the cities were built, Gneiss, hearing the half-elf’s softly drawn breath, looked up and then around.

The bridge, its arching roof and broad floor constructed of perfectly square cuts of dark and light granite, was empty of anything but shadows and the sound of their own breathing. From the esplanade ahead came the shouts and laughter of dwarven children at play. The gardens behind were silent as shadows.

“What is it?” Gneiss whispered.

Tanis held up a hand, head cocked to listen. Leather on stone, they heard the scuff of a footstep. The half-elf reached for his short sword; Hornfel’s fingers closed around the grip of the small dagger at his hip.

“In the shadows,” the Hylar said.

Even as he spoke, the shadows, which seemed to perch on the edge of the bridge, flowing up from the cavern yawning below, took on substance and form. A superstitious chill skittered along Gneiss’s neck. He recognized the dwarf who stepped away from the darkness and, seeming not to have seen the three, turned and entered the esplanade. A Theiwar, one of Realgar’s derro magelings.

Tanis, his thumb absently stroking the hilt of his short sword looked from Hornfel to Gneiss. “Who is it?”

“Don’t know his name,” Gneiss grunted.

“Dhegan,” Hornfel said.

“Aye, Dhegan. One of Realgar’s—underlings.”

He might well have said “assassins,” Gneiss thought. He shook his head and headed toward the esplanade and light.

As he walked, the Daewar noted that Hornfel gave Tanis no word of explanation. Adept at understanding what his old friend did not say, as well as what he did, Gneiss realized that the half-elf did not accompany them for the opportunity to see the city. At some time in the past day or night, Hornfel must have discussed the political climate of the dwarven kingdom with the two leaders of the refugees. Tanis Half-Elven, Outlander and stranger, walked with them not only as a companion but as a bodyguard as well.

Aye, well, they’re protecting their interests. The first thing the damned Theiwar will do after he begins his revolution is get rid of these refugees. Suddenly, the Daewar wanted to see the light, to feel it. Soon he would have to fight. He did not want to fight in the shadows.

Darknight had no love for the fire’s light. Realgar ignored its impatient snarl and turned his back to the torch in the wall cresset. His shadow, black and ragged, leaped out before him, crawling across the rough stone floor of the dragon’s lair. A thread of fury raced through the Theiwar like a line of flame. His right hand moved to the scabbarded sword at his hip, fingers tracing the silver chasing and the pattern of the inlaid sapphires on the hilt. As though he touched some calm-giving talisman, his anger cooled. He signaled to the two guards waiting behind him in the shadows. Between them, the guards dragged a heavy, unyielding burden into the light.

Dead meat! Darknight growled, a jagged sound of protest and anger. Beyond its reach, in the smaller cavern outside its lair lay better food: the one-handed dwarf and the human girl Realgar had taken prisoner at dawn. The dragon thought of the live meat and then eyed the corpse of a dead dwarven guard.

“Is this what you are feeding me?”

Realgar laughed, a sound like breathing ice. “Are you still hungry, then? A goat and calf were not enough? Aye, dragon, you’ve an endless appetite.” He rounded on Darknight, his eyes flaring anger. “The ranger is gone! I found this one in the prison cave where he should have been! You’re hungry? Well and good. Blunt the edge of it on this carcass and find the ranger for me. Then you’ll have better meat. Not before.”

Darknight snaked its neck forward, its great nostrils distending. Carrion was an insult, but its belly rumbled with hunger. It sank dagger fangs into the shoulder of the dead guard, bit down hard and snapped bones. Realgar took no notice, but jerked his thumb at the two guards and spoke a word of curt dismissal. He turned his back on the dragon and the corpse at its feet. He drew the Kingsword from the scabbard. Oily torch smoke streamed across the jeweled hilt.

The god-touched heart of the blade quickened beneath the sliding light of the flame. Realgar lifted the sword high in both hands, brought it slowly down to eye level. His breath, short and quick, clouded the steel. Through the veil, the crimson heart glowed, undiminished.

A Kingsword, Stormblade was innocent of any rune or marking.

“Those,” he whispered to the sword, “those will come later to mark the deeds of my reign. King regent?” His eyes narrowed. “No. High king.”

No regent, he thought now as he lowered the blade; no caretaker for the throne of high king, waiting to the last days of my life for a mythical Hammer to be found. I will be high king!

Darknight stretched its neck again and brought its head, low and almost touching the damp stone, to within reach of the dwarf. The great beast’s eye was almost at a level with Realgar’s. “What do I guard them for, Lord, if not my own dinner?”

Realgar smiled coldly, his eyes strayed from the Kingsword to his prisoners still lying in the darkness where his guards had thrown them. His sleep spell would wear off soon enough. He smiled again to think of them waking to find the dragon brooding hungrily over them. The swordcrafter’s apprentice, Stanach, and the human girl would be saved for better things than Darknight’s belly.

Saved for my crowning ceremonies, he thought, where I will thank them for bringing me the Kingsword, then cut their hearts out for seeking to keep it from me. To the dragon he said nothing, only shrugged. Darknight raised its head, its great fangs dripping, its breath stinking of its recent kills. “Lord?”

Realgar held himself perfectly still, though his skin crawled to have the dragon’s fangs so near his neck. “You guard them at my command. It should be reason enough.”

The dragon contented itself with imagining how pleased Verminaard would be to hang the sword on the wall of Pax Tharkas’s throne room above the skull of this arrogant lordling.

Realgar smelled victory the way a wolf smells prey. It was near and he only had to leap to catch it. His assassins stalked the other thanes, lesser wolves but as hungry. Darknight curled its tail tightly around its flanks and stretched its lipless mouth in silent laughter.

These stalkers, too, would be denied their prey until Realgar gave the word to feast. That word would not be given until Hornfel was dead. The dragon watched as Realgar, his captives forgotten, held the sword up to the flame again, watched his eyes track the light down the edges of the blade. Crimson light and glittering, it splashed like the shadows of blood across the dwarf’s hands.

The Hylar would die soon, fallen to Realgar’s dark schemes. Aye, coward, the dragon sneered, you kill your great enemy in the dark and the shadows, secretly with a sword’s blade through the back. Do you really think that the deaths of lesser folk, achieved in the light and before the eyes of whoever remains in this wretched kingdom, will prove your courage?

Realgar sheathed the sword with slow, almost ceremonial motions. He turned back to the dragon, a strange, knowing smile on his lips. “You hear my thoughts, do you, Sevristh?”

Darknight stretched its wings with preening grace.

“Aye, you hear them and that’s good. Keep listening. I’ll need you to fly once more before this is done, and it will likely be that I can’t call you any other way.”

Wings settling tightly over its sleek ebony flanks, the dragon snaked its tongue, flickering, around the edges of its fangs. “Oh, aye, Lord. I am, as always, yours to command.” Darknight watched him leave, listened to the confident voice of his thoughts, and found not even the smallest trace of doubt in his plans or in the dragon’s intentions. He was thinking about a high kingship and the dark road leading to his goal.

Well and good, Darknight thought, using his own phrase. It ran the edges of its claws scraping along the stone floor and nuzzled the half-eaten carcass of the dwarven guard and imagined that the bones it snapped between its powerful jaws were Realgar’s.