Bryon bowed when he saw the king, and Skella returned the favor with a slight nod of his head. The dwarvish woman walked to the king, whispered something into his ear, turned to Bryon, gave a short curtsey and smile, and left.
“Please,” King Skella said, “have a seat.”
Bryon found a chair waiting for him, next to Balzarak.
“It is good to see you again, Bryon,” the king said. “It seems you have embarrassed my great granddaughter, however, by answering your door bare chested.”
The look on the king’s face was stern and sincere.
“I-I’m sorr—” Bryon began to say as he moved to stand again and bow low, but the king cut him off with a smile and a wave of his hand.
“I only jest,” he said in his typically, grandfatherly voice. “You are tired and weary and didn’t know I would send a woman as beautiful as my great granddaughter to fetch you. Please, have a drink, Bryon.”
A stately looking dwarf, regaled in fine livery of yellows and reds walked to Bryon’s side, lifted a metal pot from the middle of the table, and poured a light brown liquid into a small cup, offering it on a saucer to Bryon. Bryon grabbed the saucer, as the cup looked hot—steam rising from its contents—and nodded to the serving dwarf.
“Please,” King Skella said, offering a hand and motioning for Bryon to drink, “tell me what you think of the tea.”
“It reminds me of home,” Bryon said after sipping, “of my mother.”
“That is good, then, yes?” the king said.
Bryon just shrugged but perhaps it was more from habit.
“Does home hold so many sour memories?” the king asked.
“No.” Bryon shook his head. “And yes.”
“And how can it be both?”
Bryon waited a moment to answer, not sure even what he might say.
“I’m not sure what I will find when I get home,” Bryon finally said. “I never really wanted to return until now. What will my parents say? How do I look my uncle and aunt in the face after …?”
Bryon’s voice trailed off.
“The loss of your cousin,” King Skella said.
Bryon nodded.
“Hold on to the good memories,” King Skella said, “and try not to think of the things that might be, or that might have been, as hard as that is. How are you feeling?”
“Much better, thank you,” Bryon replied.
“You were near death,” King Skella said. “It was a close one. My surgeons worked day and night to fix you up.”
“I owe them much,” Bryon said.
“Yes, you do,” King Skella added, “but I feel, more so, you owe General Balzarak and your cousin, Erik, for getting you here. I understand the apprehensions behind coming back to Thorakest, but had you gone with Erik, you would be dead.”
“I know my cousin didn’t mean any disrespect by not returning,” Bryon said.
“I know,” King Skella said. “Balzarak has already briefed me. It was probably the wisest course of action. I would have honored my agreement, but I cannot say the same for others in my city. Thorakest, much to my sadness, has become a dangerous place lately.”
“How come Your Majesty?” Bryon asked.
“My own mayor, Fréden Fréwin,” the king explained, “has led an uprising against me. As much as we have never gotten along, I never thought in all my years he would try and turn my own people against me.”
“He is dead then?” Bryon asked.
Balzarak shook his head, a wistful expression on his face.
“He stole away with a group of loyalists,” Balzarak said, “and he now makes the Wicked Spire his residence, a mountain with three peaks that rises up from the Plains of Güdal. It was a former kingdom of the ancient dwarves. Our scouts say dwarves from all over Háthgolthane and beyond, those disenchanted with their leaders, are heeding his call to join him.”
“I can’t believe it,” Bryon muttered.
“Aye,” Balzarak said. “Dark times. That accompanied by …”
The general shot King Skella a look, one of fear, and Bryon couldn’t help seeing it.
“You were there in Orvencrest,” the king said, turning to Bryon, “so, you know what lives there?”
“The dwomanni?” asked Bryon with a questioning look.
“Yes,” King Skella said. “And that is a dangerous secret every dwarvish king must keep. A secret that, I fear, is no longer only known to a few.”
“Your Majesty?” Bryon asked.
“A young dwarf was executed in Strongbur just a month ago for conspiring against the duke,” King Skella said. “Many thought he was conspiring with men. The duke and I knew the truth.”
“He was conspiring with the dwomanni,” Balzarak said.
“And you knew of the dragon, as well?” Bryon asked.
“I did,” King Skella said. “Another former secret. She was asleep for a thousand years. I should have known that the treasure the Lord of the East sought was the Dragon Scroll.”
“The Dragon Scroll, Your Majesty?” Bryon asked.
“It is a spell, Bryon,” the king explained, “a powerful weapon kept secret and hidden by the dwarves ever since the fall of Orvencrest. The caster of the spell becomes invincible against a dragon’s fire, at least for a time. But with only the scroll, the spell is incomplete. With it, one needs the Dragon Sword and the Dragon Crown. Once someone is in possession of all three, they can control a dragon, even the most powerful of dragons.”
“That sounds frightening,” Bryon said, visions of their time in Orvencrest flashing through his mind.
“It is more than frightening, Bryon,” King Skella said, “and the last time it happened, the world almost ended. It is a good thing Erik didn’t bring the Dragon Scroll here.”
“I often wonder,” Balzarak said. “Is it a better idea to deliver it to the Lord of the East?”
“Both are evil,” King Skella said. “Let the hunger that such power creates consume the Lord of the East. While Syzbalo searches for the Dragon Sword and Dragon Crown, we dwarves can be ready. For if the Dragon Scroll was here, my people would become drunk with the thought of such power. It would be chaos. And I do believe that Erik and Wrothgard and yourself would be in great danger, even more so than they are now.”
“We found lists of names, as well,” Balzarak interjected. “The lost clans.”
“Lost, yes,” King Skella said, “gone and dead, hopefully.”
“Your Majesty?” Balzarak said.
King Skella looked to his servant, Nordri, who stood in the corner of the room and, in turn, he walked to the wall full of books. The serving dwarf scanned the shelves only for a moment before stopping at a book, thick spine worn and weathered. He gently lifted the book from its resting place, blew years’ worth of dust away from its cover before wiping away what his breath could not catch. He handed it to the king with a bow.
“Few know of these families,” the king said, thumbing through several pages of the book. The pages were yellowed and brittle. Some of them were torn and chipped. “Few know of these stories. Even fewer know of their fate, those who could not escape Orvencrest.”
“Your Majesty?” Bryon said.
“There are times, Bryon, when certain mysteries are better left mysteries,” the king replied. “I do not like keeping my people in the dark, but knowledge is a powerful tool. It can be a powerful weapon, and what people might do with that, the knowledge … Well, we have seen the passing of many ages and the destruction of many people over the pursuit of knowledge.”
“I don’t understand,” Balzarak said.
“Is it better to let dwarves like Fréden believe a dwarf spy in Strongbur is working for men,” the King said, “rather than let him know he was, in fact, working for the dwomanni? Is it better to let people believe dragons were some fanciful tale so many years past, or let people know they truly do exist and could destroy a whole city with a single breath?”
“People—men, dwarves—seem to delight in ignorance,” the
king explained. “What would people do with the knowledge that a lost dwarvish city is out there?”
The king waved his hand as if to present the whole room, the whole world, perhaps.
“Look at the Lord of the East,” King Skella said. “Look at the lengths he went to in finding this city or, rather, something hidden within its treasures. Look at the death it has caused. Look at my friend, Fréden Fréwin. That knowledge has consumed him enough for him to rise against his own king. His own people. What will my people do now they know dragons truly exist? The dwomanni exist? Even worse, that dragons can be controlled.”
The air in the room seemed to hang still. The warmth of the fire left, and Bryon held his breath.
“Yes,” the king continued. “What would my people do if they knew those who were not destroyed in the tragedy of Orvencrest were enslaved by the dwomanni? That their descendants are probably still enslaved by the dwomanni, a thousand years later?”
“We should rescue them,” Balzarak said urgently, leaning forward.
“Exactly what every righteous and self-respecting dwarf should say,” the king replied, “and exactly why it has been kept a secret. Exactly why it must be kept a secret.”
“Your Majesty?” Balzarak questioned.
“Should we send all of our armies into the depths of the earth in search of these lost souls?” the king asked. “I mourn for them daily, but it would be folly, and the dwarvish people would soon meet their final demise, that we are sure of. The dwomanni are powerful. And now that they have made their presence known, I fear for our future.”
King Skella sat back in his chair and took a sip of his own tea. Balzarak just stared at the king, mouth open. King Skella put his cup of tea down and smiled mirthlessly.
“And, all this mystery, is to my foolishness, I suppose,” the king said. “What good has it done us? Our people once again will know of the dragon—Black Wing is her name in your language, Bryon.”
“She’s not dead?” Bryon asked.
“Dead, no,” the king said, shaking his head. “She is probably in the process of seeking out her mate, Shadow Tooth. It has been millennia since they have been together. The havoc they will wreak upon this world, I shudder to think of it.”
The king flipped through several, yellowed pages, the paper creaking as they moved from one side to the other.
“Yes, it is all in this book,” King Skella said. “There is a copy of it in your grandfather’s library, General Balzarak.”
Balzarak looked at the king hard as if a part of him didn’t believe what Skella had just said.
“An age ago, this book came to Thûrkzan, son of Thûrkbrand the Second and descendant of Brumber the Second,” the king explained, “around the time Orvencrest was about to fall.”
“I’ve heard of Brumber Steel Fist, but who is Thûrkzan?” Bryon asked.
“A king of Orvencrest,” King Skella explained. “He knew his city was about to fall, knew it was doomed, and so he collected all the information, history, and genealogies he could and sent it to Thorakest.”
“Why didn’t he just ask for help?” Bryon asked. “Why didn’t he ask for reinforcements?”
“There are several pages at the end of this book written by Thûrkzan,” King Skella replied. “He talks about that. He speaks to his desire to send his whole army to Orvencrest. That was a dark time, you must understand. The forces of the Shadow were strong, and hope was a sparing commodity. But after consulting with his advisors, he decided that sending their armies would have not only spelled the end of Orvencrest, but of Thorakest and another city called Throdukr as well. So, Thûrkzan did as he was asked. He copied the book so that the north would also have knowledge of what happened, studied it, and passed it on to his son when he was ready to become king.”
The king sighed and clicked his tongue, tapping his fingers on the yellowed pages of the book.
“The families, the clans lost in Orvencrest?” Balzarak asked. “The stories and poems and battle songs? The genealogies?”
“All in this book,” King Skella said. “All—Stone Hammer, Blood Axe, Red Steel, Bone Breaker, Fire Beard—regretfully and thankfully, in this book.”
The king took another sip of his tea.
“I, too, know of the pain,” King Skella finally said to Bryon after Balzarak and Gôdruk had left. “I know, too well, the pain of losing my own blood. Of losing my brother. I can still hear the cries of warriors dying around me. I can still smell that scent of battle. I can still feel my brother’s body as I held him. I can still see his eyes as life slowly flickered away.
“My brother bled in my arms, his breathing slowing, his skin paling, his eyes closing. He lay there, and there was nothing I could do. The Prince of Thorakest, and there was nothing I could do. All I could do was kneel there, his head cradled in my hands, and rock back and forth, weeping as more dwarves died around me.”
The king placed an elbow on the table, made a fist, and rested his chin on his knuckles.
“Just one more day,” the king muttered. Bryon didn’t know if the king meant for him to hear what he had said, but he had nonetheless. “Just one more day, Skalli. All I want is just one more day with you.”
The king stood from his seat and walked towards the door. As he neared Bryon, he put his hand on the man’s shoulder.
“If you never let go of that pain Bryon—what I know you feel about your cousin—it will destroy you. The hate you feel will never give way to any other emotion. You will never know joy. You will never know peace. You will never know sorrow; only a painful hate that will eventually be your undoing.”
The king patted Bryon’s shoulder and left the room.
Chapter 44
Bu drove his sword hilt deep into the man’s belly. His sword—Patûk Al’Banan’s sword—slid easily through the count’s hauberk. He stared at Bu with wondering eyes—amazed, perplexed, curious, confused. That look, one of a man as he died, always sent shivers down Bu’s spine. He lusted for that look, more than he did so for a woman. The count, one of the few Hámonian nobles that actually came to the defense of King Cedric, took one last look at the battlefield, staring at all his dead soldiers. Bu didn’t know his name. He didn’t care.
“The Shadow take you,” the man said with a gurgling hiss as blood filled his mouth.
Bu simply nodded. He respected defiance in the face of death. He pushed a little harder, even though his sword had nowhere to go. The count groaned, and then his head fell back, and Bu retrieved his blade.
Another battle was over, again finished far quicker than he had expected. The fields in front of Venton once looked green and lush, but blood now glimmered everywhere in the noonday sun. Smoke rose from burning wagons and the campfires that died in harmony with the men. Crows and the peasants of Hámon had already started picking at the dead, the birds for supper and the people for loose coin or other things of value. Walking about the field, Bu saw four dead Hámonians for every one of his men.
Only five nobles heeded the king’s call, and four of them surrendered when they knew the battle was lost.
“The city is ours,” Pavin said, riding up next to Bu.
“Have Andu bring me Warrior,” Bu commanded, and General Pavin Abashar gave him a quick bow.
The keep of Venton was unimpressive. It sat towards the back of the city, surrounded by a short curtain wall. Other than a few storage buildings and a nondescript chapel to some deity of whom Bu had never heard, the keep building was the only structure within the walls, a square building that rose eight stories. Compared to Fen-Stévock, this was nothing. The east could have easily conquered Hámon.
Warrior’s hooves clattered on the stone stairs as Bu rode up to the front double doors, which were quickly opened by Hámonian guards who didn’t dare make eye contact with the general. With Pavin, Ban Chu, and Li behind him, Bu rode through into the main hall of the keep, which was about as lavish as he expected.
He assumed that, by Hámonian standards, it was decorated ric
hly, with several large tapestries hanging from the walls, a purple rug leading from the doorway to the throne, painted columns on either side of the rug, and a giant hearth and fireplace built into one wall. The many windows in the room provided ample light, but still, a fire raged in the fireplace, and every sconce held a lit torch.
Towards the rear of the room opposite the fireplace, Bu saw a set of narrow stairs. As he rode along the rug that led to the throne, on which King Cedric still sat, Warrior stopped to piss and shit. The warhorse must’ve known how his rider felt about the room. The gasp coming from the king and two aristocrats that stood to one side of his throne made Bu smile. A woman, younger and blonde and voluptuous, standing on the other side of Cedric giggled. Bu smiled wider.
King Cedric wanted to say something, but he had lost, and he just sat and stewed as Bu neared the throne and as his men spilled into the keep.
“King Cedric,” Bu said, dismounting and stepping forward.
“Bu Al’Banan,” the king replied. “I suppose congratulations are in order.”
There was no belief in his words or on the king’s face, just frustration. His nobles and citizens had abandoned him. He had been overrun in no time at all.
“I understand the ways of the feudal west, after a loss in battle, are to imprison nobles and then ransom them off to some nearest of kin,” Bu said.
The king nodded with the slightest hint of a smile.
“The ways of the imperial east are different, King Cedric,” Bu said, and the small smile on the king’s face disappeared. “We execute men such as you, in front of your people, to discourage ideas of revolt or resistance.”
The king’s face blanched. Despite his plate mail and the open-faced helm he wore with a crown welded to it, this man was no warrior. He was a coward.
Breaking the Flame Page 31
