Everyone readied their weapons, but after a few moments, the smoke dissipated, and the rumbling stopped.
“Don’t touch anything,” Balzarak hissed. “Everything here is tainted.”
Erik looked at the doll hanging limply in his belt. Everything?
The marketplace was vast, broken remains of carts and shops scattered all over. The sound of boot steps on a cobbled street echoed through the cavern in which the city rested.
“I don’t like this place,” Switch said. Erik saw the thief shiver. “Treasure or not, this place is cursed.”
“Cursed indeed,” Wrothgard agreed.
“Yes,” Balzarak said, “very much cursed.”
Once they passed through the tomb of what once was a marketplace, they could see the distant walls of the castle of Orvencrest. This part of the city seemed even more decrepit, with very few buildings left standing. As Switch rested a hand against a beam of wood that leaned against the stone foundation of another building, the old wood crumbled away, turning to dust instantly. The smell of fire and smoke hit Erik’s nose, and he bid Demik bring his torch closer. The dust was black. The floor was black. The stone of the other building’s foundation was black.
“Fire,” Erik said.
The walls of the next building still stood, albeit crooked and pockmarked. Wrothgard and Turk stepped through what was once the front door.
“I think we finally found dwarvish remains,” Wrothgard called out.
Erik saw what looked like a gray statue of a dwarvish child. Next to it, were a dwarvish man and woman, also stone-like.
“What is that?” Befel asked.
“Are they encased in ancient ash?” Erik asked. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”
“The fire would have had to have been so hot to do this,” Turk said. “I have never known a fire to get this hot.”
“Never,” Demik agreed.
“I’ve seen this once,” Dwain said.
“Truly?” Wrothgard asked.
“Truly,” Dwain replied. “Melted rock flows like rivers, deep within the earth. It is like yellow blood. It is so hot, it can melt even Dwarf’s Iron in an instant. Sometimes, the heat builds up, and it erupts through the surface of the earth.”
“A volcano,” Wrothgard said.
“Yes, a volcano,” Dwain replied. “An eruption happened, once, near a village of men, near the Yerymann Steppes. I was a member of the dwarvish force that went to help those who had survived. The temperature of the air was so hot when the volcano erupted, when ash fell and the air cooled, it froze the people it covered. Those images still haunt my dreams to this day.”
“So, this hot blood of the earth erupted here?” Switch asked.
“I thought Orvencrest was attacked,” Erik said.
“It was,” Balzarak said, “and no, hot magma did not erupt and destroy Orvencrest. There would be nothing left.”
“Then what could have made the air so bloody hot to do this?” Switch asked.
Balzarak looked to Gôdruk and Thormok. They whispered, and the look on Gôdruk’s face was enough for anyone to realize it wasn’t a pleasant conversation.
“Bloody magic, that’s what it was,” Switch said.
“The bloodiest,” Balzarak said, “and the blackest.”
They found more bodies encased in ash and more buildings blackened and charred. This whole area of the city looked to have been ravaged by fire, anything flammable was gone. There were even blocks of stone that looked to have been melted.
Beldar said something to Threhof.
“A fire in a mountain cavern, with nowhere to go, would be devastating,” Threhof said, nodding his head. “As it rages, it sucks away all the oxygen. These dwarves probably suffocated before this ash ever touched them.”
“Then why does the evidence of fire stop at the marketplace?” Erik asked.
Balzarak looked back at the young man, worry in his eyes.
“Maybe there was no more air,” Threhof said with a shrug. “Fire can’t burn without air.”
Threhof didn’t believe what he was saying. Erik knew that. He could tell by the tone of his voice. And the look that Balzarak gave him said he didn’t believe him either.
Chapter 6
Cliens and Ranus had seen a group of men and dwarves they recognized from Finlo, from the Messenger’s meeting. But there were other dwarves with them. Cliens couldn’t figure why men and dwarves were traveling together. But shortly after they saw them exit an entrance into the mountain, dwarvish patrols began to increase. They hid for several days, wanting to follow the mercenaries but concerned about being seen by the keen eyes of some scout. That meant they lost track of the mercenaries, the group of men from Finlo, and they were not happy.
It was their solemn duty, their task direct from the General Lord Marshall, commander of all military forces of Gol-Durathna, to follow these mercenaries, these minions of the Lord of the East. They were to follow them and find out what it was the Lord of the East wanted, what thing he could possibly desire, hidden deep within the ruins of an ancient dwarvish city. And what were they to do when they found this thing … or found the men who found this treasure. That command was somewhat ambiguous. Take the thing and let them go? Capture them? Kill them? The thought gave Cliens a shiver.
Risking coming more out into the open, they found a large bridge that crossed a massive ravine that split the Southern Mountains into two ranges. Camping there, the next morning Ranus spotted a gigantic bear.
“Cave bear,” he had told Cliens.
It limped, missing several claws on one of its paws, as it paced back and forth on the other side of the bridge, perhaps wondering if it could cross. Cliens shuddered at the thought of what thing could have caused such an injury to this prehistoric beast. The bear disappeared into the mountain forest when a dwarvish patrol showed up, the soldiers congregating at the bridge.
Ranus tapped Cliens on his shoulder and jerked his head sideways, signaling that they should go. Cliens nodded in agreement, but stopped moving when he heard talking, not in Dwarvish, but in Shengu.
A company of men marched along the edge of the ravine, apparently unaware of the dwarves as the dwarves were just as unaware of them.
“Golgolithulians?” Cliens whispered.
Ranus shook his head and pointed to the man in the lead and his iron breastplate.
“Patûk,” Cliens hissed.
Ranus nodded his head.
“Damn it,” Cliens cursed. “Now we’re stuck between them.”
Ranus suggested they go around, but that would take them away from the ravine by another day or more. The mercenaries they had been following were the closest to finding the fabled lost city of Orvencrest. If anyone could show them a way to recover that which the Lord of the East sought so desperately, it would be these mercenaries, with the seeming help of dwarves from Thorakest.
“We wait,” Cliens said.
“They’ll be long gone,” Ranus replied.
“What? The master tracker cannot follow their trail?” Cliens chided.
“Even my nose for tracking has its limitations,” Ranus replied.
Just then, the men and dwarves saw one another. Ranus and Cliens pushed away from the ledge overlooking the ravine and began to descend down the slope. The sounds of metal clanging—and dying—rang out only moments later, soldiers shouting in both Dwarvish and Shengu.
“Son of a whore,” Cliens cursed.
They hiked east and then started climbing the steep mountain slope again, so they might see the ravine and find another way across, away from the land bridge and fighting. Cliens followed his nimble friend as quickly as he could, but Ranus always seemed more adept at this sort of thing. Ranus stopped, just before the crest of the hill.
“What is it?” Cliens said through labored breaths. He hadn’t realized how tired he truly was until they stopped.
“More easterners,” Ranus replied. He went down onto his stomach and pulled himself forward, slowly.
“If we keep running to the east,” Cliens whispered, “we move farther and farther away from the mercenaries.”
Ranus nodded. He looked to Cliens. Cliens nodded back.
The stealth of Ranus always amazed Cliens. He stood shorter than most men, but he was well muscled, and all that muscle seemed to slow most down. Ranus jumped behind one of the easterners—the man unaware—with his two-pronged spear in one hand and a long, curved dagger in the other. He jabbed both blades of the spear hard into the base of the soldier’s head. The soldier lurched forward, collapsing in a heap. As the soldier next to the dead man turned, Ranus brought the blade of his dagger up under the man’s chin. Blood exploded from his mouth, and he gurgled a muffled scream. Another soldier ran at Ranus, but Cliens leapt at him, sword in hand. The steel blade easily passed through the man’s leather breastplate.
The other three soldiers, now aware that they were under attack, lined up, shield to shield, with spears extended. Ranus jumped, his feet easily head level with the eastern soldiers. As one of the soldiers tried to stab upwards at Cliens’ friend, Cliens came in hard with his sword. He felt his blade break ribs as it slid through the soft meat of a man’s diaphragm. The soldier lurched to the side, crashing into the man next to him.
As they tumbled backwards, Ranus came down onto the other soldier, foot kicking out and catching his enemy in the nose. The easterner dropped his guard, eyes watering as blood ran freely from his nose. That gave Ranus all the opportunity he needed, and he jabbed upwards with his two-pronged spear, catching the soldier in the throat.
“What are you doing here?” Cliens asked the surviving soldier in Shengu, the language of Golgolithul.
The soldier rolled over to face Cliens, and as he did, jabbed up with a sword. Cliens easily swatted the weapon away and slashed at the man’s wrist. The soldier groaned and clutched his arm to his chest. Cliens’ steel had almost removed the man’s hand.
“What are eastern traitors doing here?” Cliens asked, again in Shengu.
“Traitors?” the soldier seethed. “It is that imposter that is the traitor.”
Cliens looked at Ranus with a smile.
“Who do you serve then?” Cliens asked.
“The east,” the soldier replied, his face paling. “I serve Golgolithul and its people.”
“You know what I mean,” Cliens said. He put the point of his sword to the man’s chest. His steel easily slid through the leather breastplate and into flesh. The soldier groaned again, this time louder.
Cliens saw Ranus step forward. He had a concerned look on his face—a disapproving look. Ranus hated his questioning tactics. Cliens certainly did not wish to torture enemies. He would rather give them a quick death, contrary to the officers and inquisitors of Golgolithul. But when there was a need to extract information, Cliens found a way.
Cliens returned the hard look Ranus gave him.
“What do you want me to do?” Cliens asked in his native tongue. “Do you want me to wrap him in a blanket and give him treats?”
Ranus shook his head. “No. But no need to cause him extra pain. Give him a quick death, and be done with it.”
“Patûk Al’Banan or Pavin Al’Bashar?” Cliens asked.
Cliens suspected General Al’Banan, with the regimented way these soldiers moved and the breastplates bearing the symbol of the Aztûkians, the former ruling family of Golgolithul. When the soldier didn’t reply, Cliens pressed his sword into the man’s shoulder harder.
“Curse you,” the soldier seethed. “May Ga’an Yû curse you, in this life and the next.”
“Don’t believe in him,” Cliens said, smiling, “so I don’t really care about your curse. Now, who do you serve?”
“General Patûk Al’Banan,” the soldier finally said. He seemed tired. He was losing blood.
“And why are you here?” Cliens asked.
“Just kill me already,” the soldier said.
“Soon enough,” Cliens replied. “Why are you here?”
The soldier waited a moment, closing his eyes.
“The imposter wants something from the dwarves—a lost city or something like that. It’s something of importance to him. I don’t know what it is. Of course, rather than look for it himself, he commissioned mercenaries to find it for him. We have been ordered to stop them.”
“I see,” Cliens said. “And the dwarves are making that difficult.”
The soldier nodded slowly.
“Aye. Stupid tunnel diggers. We have had three or four skirmishes with dwarvish patrols just in the last few days.”
“You are to stop these mercenaries, or find the city for yourselves?” Cliens asked.
“I don’t know.” The soldier leaned his head back. His breathing slowed. “I’m just a soldier. It’s all too complicated for me. Give me ale and women, and I’ll be happy.”
Before he closed them, the soldier’s eyes took on a vacant look and then, as if he was watching his life slip away, a wide smile appeared on his face. Cliens drew his sword from the man’s chest and placed the tip of his blade at the base of the soldier’s throat. Most men flinched when that happened, knowing what was coming. This man could have cared less. Blood pooled around him, flowing freely from his wrist. His skin had paled almost white. He probably didn’t even feel the steel at his throat.
Cliens pushed hard, the blade passing through skin, throat, and spine easily. The soldier didn’t move. He didn’t even flinch.
“The dwarves are coming,” Ranus said, pointing to the west.
Cliens turned. He couldn’t see anything, but he heard the growl of a bear, heard distant shouting in Dwarvish. He looked back to his friend, who jerked his head sideways, motioning down the hill to the ravine.
“The land bridge is just back that way,” Ranus said.
“Let’s go then,” Cliens replied.
They raced down the hill, the yelling dwarves behind them.
As Ranus stepped out onto the bridge, Cliens looked back, once again. At least half a dozen dwarves, all clad in mail and plate armor, glared down at them. They shouted and pointed, and again, Cliens heard the great growl of a bear. The beast came into view—a giant of a brown bear covered in plate barding—and took a swipe at the earth before stomping up and down.
“Come on,” Ranus said as he nimbly crossed over the bridge.
“Sure,” Cliens muttered to himself, “says the one who could walk across this ravine on nothing but a piece of thin string.”
Cliens stepped out onto the land bridge, trying his best not to look over the edge and stare at the darkness that consumed the space below him. He expected the shouting dwarves to get closer, expected to eventually have to run across the bridge, but that never happened. Halfway across, he heard more shouting, this time in Shengu. Cliens stopped and turned, watching as the other force of eastern men clashed with a dozen southern dwarves.
“Are you coming?” Ranus yelled.
“Yes,” Cliens replied, looking back at his friend who already stood on the other side of the ravine. “Yes, yes. I’m coming.”
“Quickly, perhaps?” Ranus chided. Cliens could sense the amusement in his friend’s voice. “Or are you planning on waiting until the dwarves kill those men?”
“No, damn it,” Cliens replied. “I’m coming. Calm yourself. I’m not as nimble as you are.”
When Cliens finally reached the other side, he asked, “Can you track them?”
Ranus gave Cliens a disapproving, frustrated look.
“Just a question,” Cliens said defensively.
“I can track them,” Ranus replied.
“Then let’s get to it.”
Chapter 7
“Fires happen in large cities,” Switch said, quite confidently. “In fact, they happen all the time. And they’re the kiss of death. Fires and epidemics.”
As they moved closer to the castle, its ancient towers—those that still stood, at least—rose taller and taller in the distance, gigantic, shadowy monsters of mystery in the relatively dim light of torch, magic sword, and magic circlet that was almost washed out by the vastness of Orvencrest’s cavern.
Now, the dwelling places and shops of Turk and Balzarak’s ancestors disappeared, little more than ages old dust where stone and timber once stood. Here and there they found a few foundations or lumps of hardened iron or steel or some other metal, melted in the great fire. But mostly, they found empty space, buildings destroyed a thousand years ago and gone from memory.
“If this was just a typical fire,” Erik said, “then why does it end at the marketplace? Why does the damage just stop?”
“Like the old tunnel digger said,” Switch said, pointing a thumb to Threhof, “it used up all the air in the cavern. It bloody killed itself, basically.”
“Did anyone look at the gate?” Wrothgard asked.
Erik didn’t quite understand what the soldier meant, and by the silence, he suspected neither did anyone else.
“The gate leading into the cavern,” Wrothgard repeated. “Did anyone look at it?”
“It was broken,” Turk said, “barely hanging from its giant hinges. Why?”
“I remember it being black,” Wrothgard said.
“Everything here is black,” Switch said with an irritated huff.
“No,” Wrothgard said. “Black … as in burnt. I guess I didn’t think of it when we first entered Orvencrest—I had no reason to. Perhaps it was just blackened by time and decay. But, as I remember looking at it—only briefly as we passed through the entrance—it looked brittle, as if it had been touched by fire.”
Breaking the Flame Page 4
