by Meg Cowley
Harper held in a groan at the thought of having to walk even farther, but she knew there was no choice. They had to follow Halvar’s scouts, for it was their only chance to find Ragnar.
Twenty-One
Halvar took them to the armoury to tend to their weapons and clothing. Harper had never seen so much metal in one place before, and she gawked at the cavernous space filled with different levels, from the forges on the bottom, to the tooling and crafters in the middle, to the stores of armour at the very top. The space was kept to a temperate warmth by the heat of the forges, where molten metal ran white hot.
“Take anything you need, by gift of the könig,” Halvar instructed them, then eyed Brand’s bulk. “We won’t have anything to fit you, I’m afraid.”
Brand shrugged. “It’s no matter. My weapons and armour are suitable.”
Halvar looked over Brand’s worn leathers as if he would disagree, yet said nothing.
“We travel fast, so take only what you are sure you will be able to carry. Our light mails and leathers are over there.” He waved in the general direction. “Weapons over here.” He gestured in another direction. “I shall wait by the entrance. Be swift, for we must sup before we leave.” He pursed his lips, as if somewhat annoyed that he had to mind them rather than attend to his usual duties.
“Thank you, Jarl,” Brand said, then made his way over to the racks of armour and weapons to admire the craftsmanship.
He let out a low whistle as he fingered their chainmail shirts. “Come, look at these. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.”
Harper followed the rest over. She picked up a small mail shirt, immediately surprised at how small and fine the links were and how light the garment was. “Surely this won’t protect anyone. It’s so fine, you could stab straight through it.”
To her surprise, Brand guffawed, his laugh echoing around the space. “You may think it, but I would trust my life to dwarven armour. I only wish they could make something to fit me. I wager this is the finest mail you’ll see anywhere this side of the Great Sea.”
Harper looked back to the gleaming silver metal. It seemed impossible, but she knew Brand would not jest about such things. She unclasped her cloak and slipped the shirt on over hers to check for sizing. It was loose and fell to halfway down her thighs.
“That looks a decent fit,” said Aedon. She nodded, but did not look at him.
Brand filled the silence. “It’s light, but are you sure you’ll be able to carry its weight for days there and back?”
Harper nodded, not wanting to seem weak, though she was not entirely sure she could manage it. I’ll need it if we’re to encounter goblins again.
Once they had chosen some small pieces of armour to supplement their protections, they wandered through the weapons, but nothing did they take, save some arrows to top up Aedon’s small quiver, which only had four left. The arrows the dwarves made were too short for his long reach, but with nothing better, he made do.
A bell tolled in the distance, the peals booming through the rock.
“Lunch time,” Brand groaned in appreciation, his grumbling stomach choosing that moment to make itself known.
Harper looked at him in surprise. Had it already been so long since breakfast?
“It’s time,” Halvar called up to them.
They hastened to his side. He led them back to Korrin’s giant feasting hall, where the rest of Jarl Halvar’s command now sat at one of the farthest tables away from the king, next to the huge doors.
“Sit anywhere you like.” Halvar sat at the head of the table nearest the choicest foods, as was the privilege of his rank.
They scrambled to the remaining spaces at the far end of the table, but luckily for them, their gracious dwarven hosts passed platters of food down to their end.
They all tucked in ravenously, and for long minutes, all that could be heard was the sound of eating, for the pies, meats, and creatively cooked root vegetables lathered in gravy were the best fare they had in memory...even surpassing the Last Inn.
When they had eaten their fill, they slumped back on the benches with full stomachs and sluggish minds, only to be plied with a variety of brews that the dwarves specialised in.
The drinks made friends of them all. Soon, some of the dwarves, who had eyed Brand apprehensively, howled with laughter as the Aerian recounted tales of battle, while others stared, eyes wide, at his huge blade, which was taller than half of them. He laughed as they sang drinking and battle songs in the Common Tongue, and the dwarves cajoled them all into joining in.
Heigh-ho, to battle I go,
With a full belly now
And an enemy to show
How deep my axe can plough!
Heigh-ho, I drive deep and hard,
Fast as the goat that leapt,
Eager as the singing bard,
As the fleeting elf that swept!
Heigh-ho, ‘fore our ranks they flee,
Goblin scum dare not stand
Where dwarf-kin rule undernea’
High peaks in halls so grand!
Heigh-ho, I strike fast to pierce,
Brave as the maiden Lar,
Like the great black bear so fierce,
My enemies bleed far!
And so it continued on for many verses until Harper had quite lost track. Soon, Erika and Brand roared along with their dwarven hosts, weapons clashing in a smashing percussion with every verse.
Aedon seemed at ease, too, happy to exchange banter with them on the many merits of elf blood and superiority to his dwarven kin, whilst the dwarves insisted, most vociferously, how mistaken he was. It was all in good spirit, the insults thrown in good humour. He did not so much as look at Harper, to her chagrin.
Harper sat quietly amongst them as she digested her meal, and the task ahead, unable to join in the merriment. Soon, they would be on the road once more and away from such comforts. Out there, somewhere, Ragnar awaited them...in whatever state.
SOONER THAN SHE WOULD have liked, yet not at all soon enough, they left Keldheim, passing through the great gates onto the octagonal-paved road, down into the valley and east.
Harper’s shoulders already ached with the weight of the dwarven mail and her pack, and her feet stung from the hard road beneath them, but she ducked her head and jogged behind the rest of the dwarven scouts nonetheless.
It was a long and hard day of travel through the mountains, following the forested valleys as they meandered east. They were watched by the dwarf gods, whose stone likenesses lined the road at one-mile intervals. After a while, though, the blessing of the dwarf road became a curse. Harper was sick of the punishing pace and hard surface, all too glad to collapse by the side of the road that night as they stopped to make camp within the shelter of the woods.
Once more, Aedon seemed to entirely avoid her, and even Brand and Erika seemed standoffish as they made camp.
BEFORE DAWN THE NEXT morning, Halvar called them to rise. They were so deep in the mountains that hoarfrost coated the entire camp, and Harper found even her cloak frozen solid. She was glad for it now, though, for her frigid breath billowed before her and the cold bit her face. Around her, the camp shook off the layer of rime that covered all in glittering white.
After a warming brew and breakfast – dwarven travelling fare of folded pasties filled with gravies and meats – they were off, and Halvar set a punishing pace once more.
By the middle of the afternoon, Harper was so exhausted, and her body hurt so much, that when Brand asked her if she was okay, she growled at him.
He lifted an eyebrow at the guttural sound. “I beg your pardon?”
“I think death...would be...preferable...to this,” she snarled through ragged breaths.
He laughed, and Erika and Aedon turned to see what the fuss was about. “I’m afraid you’re used to a more leisurely pace with us, Harper. You’ll find no sympathy with our hosts!”
Harper groaned. Just as she envisioned curling up by the side of the
road, Halvar threw a fist into the air, calling a halt. They stopped at once, and all hands fell to axe handles. The jarl surveyed their surroundings, slowly scanning from left to right and back again.
Harper craned her neck to see over them. Not that she was not grateful, but why were they stopping? It was a valley much like any other. Evergreens filled the steeply ascending sides up to rocky heights and snow-capped peaks. To either side of her, she felt Brand and Erika tense, waiting for the signal to draw their weapons.
As the lazy breeze blew, she smelled it. Carrion? It smelled like death and decay, and with a jolt, she realised what it reminded her of. Goblins. Fear shot through her at the memories of them. She drew her dagger, just as everyone else took out their own weapons to hold ready.
“Formation,” Halvar commanded in a low voice. The dwarves spread out to cover the entire road, several layers deep. Brand, Erika, Aedon, and Harper filtered into their ranks, watching the trees warily. Were they being watched?
“Remember, we are on a scouting mission only. We do not engage. We must remain undetected.” The jarl surveyed them all before his gaze returned to the trees surrounding them. “I don’t like this. It’s too obvious. It’s either a trap or they’re so confident, they care not that we could smell them a mile off.”
As they slowly advanced, their first sign of obvious disturbance was the dwarf god statue shattered across the road. Covered in blood, mud, and faeces, the figure was smashed beyond recognition. The dwarves cursed at the desecration of their guiding deity, but their curses only intensified as the next mile marker passed, then the next. The destruction had grown worse, until the last god they encountered had been obliterated to jagged rubble and dust. Jarl Halvar grew more grim with every step. Harper almost pitied any goblin who crossed their path. Almost.
Around the bend, the trees cleared to reveal the sprawling valley. In the distance, the city of Afnirheim rose. Like Keldheim, it was mostly within the mountain, but Afnirheim was like a city partly buried, for some sprawled upon the face of the mountain, too. Tiered levels spreading down into layers of green, crops that fed the city, were smooth against the jagged mountain from which they emerged.
It was a spectacular view, apart from the dirty smoke rising. The walls were dark with it. The forest smoldered, the valley scarred with black. That smell of smoke mingled with the stench of carrion that grew ever stronger.
They found the first bodies around the next bend. Harper vomited at the sight and smell of it, but she wasn’t the only one. From the position of the bodies and the way they had been stripped of anything worthwhile and piled up unceremoniously, it was obvious the dwarves had not died a kind death. They had been dead for weeks, if Harper’s knowledge of dead animals was anything to go by. She averted her eyes. Jarl Halvar murmured a prayer for them as he passed, which was echoed by his kin.
It was late afternoon, yet the sky had already begun to darken.
“We cannot stay outside the safety of Afnirheim with goblins about,” Brand murmured to Erika. She nodded in agreement.
It seemed that Halvar had the same notion, for he made for Afnirheim with singular purpose, chivvying them along. It was only when they drew within sight of the great door that he halted and his jaw tumbled open.
The land lay empty of trees and shrubs at the base of the mountain, which was a defence feature of the city, but it was clear no more. Afnirheim’s standards were torn from the battlements and lay burnt upon the road. Blood spattered the doors, which hung ajar, and crusted between the octagonal stones. Carcasses, dwarves and goblins alike, were piled high, left where they fell.
The ornate carvings on the doors had been smashed in much the same way as the effigies upon the road. Overwhelming all was a great mark upon the door, daubed in blackened blood.
The Riven Circle.
The Mark of Saradon.
Twenty-Two
Eyes wide, Harper stared at the destruction, her attention captured by the familiar mark. She closed her hand around the wrist with her bracelet upon it. Was it her imagination, or did the metal feel warmer to the touch than it ought to be?
Erika bounded forward with a snarl at the sight of the mark, but Brand pounced upon her and dragged her back, containing her within his strong arms.
“Let me go!” she spat at him.
“Don’t be a fool,” he snapped back. “We don’t yet know what we deal with. Don’t endanger yourself on a fool’s crusade. It may mean nothing. How many times have we already seen his mark used in vain?”
After a futile struggle, she fell limp in his arms, but he did not release her.
With a sharp flick of his hand, Halvar signalled a retreat. Heart hammering in her chest, Harper followed as quickly as her screaming legs allowed.
Long into the night they ran, as though the goblins pursued them through the dark. Harper saw the golden magic Aedon dropped behind them, scouring their scent and presence from the road. She hoped it would be enough. She knew they had left the stench of carrion behind, yet it still clogged her nostrils, the image of bodies springing into her mind. She shuddered.
When they finally stopped, Halvar pushed them far off the road to a defensible spot. He spared no dwarf for a double watch that night, only allowing each a few scant hours of sleep, lest they be ambushed.
“What does this mean, Jarl?” asked one of the dwarves. Brand murmured to Harper, translating their language.
“It means it is worse than we feared, Torvaig. They have taken not just the road, but Afnirheim. Gods save our kin.”
“They may yet hold out. Afnirheim is one–”
“Does it look like they held out?” snapped Halvar. He checked himself, blowing out a breath. “I apologise. That was out of turn. I hope it as well as any of you, but it does not look likely. Somehow, the goblin scum have overrun the place. We must return to the könig. He counts on us to report this, else he shall not know.”
Harper swayed as everything blurred before her. Brand’s strong hand grasped her upper arm to steady her.
“Th-Thank...y...you...,” she mumbled, her tongue tripping over the simple words, her mind struggling to recall how to speak. She swayed again, her legs gave out, and Brand caught her as she fell.
IN HER MIND, IT FELT like she continued falling, through the frozen earth, on and on, through the void. Brand’s voice called from a distance, but she could not respond as she slipped further away. Her wrist burned, as if her bracelet had become a loop of fire, searing her skin.
Then up, up, up she rose, but this time, she ascended into Keldheim.
This is not Keldheim, her mind told her.
She looked around, blinking slowly. It was like Keldheim, but this dwarven city was in ruins. Instinctively, she knew she somehow saw inside Afnirheim...as it was at that moment.
She flew through deserted and destroyed halls and corridors. Through caverns with smashed aqueducts plunging their liquids into the voids below. Through seemingly endless spaces filled with the dead of both goblin and dwarven races.
She came upon a great hall, where the leader of goblins, one greater and more disgusting than the rest, sat upon the scarred throne, the head of a dwarf, still crowned, hanging by the hair from his clawed hand.
The raucous din in the hall drove a blade into her brain as the shrieks and shouts echoed around the cavernous space. Goblins cavorted, many now wearing dwarven armour, holding jewels and finely crafted weapons. Others tore hunks of meat from...
Harper looked no further, focusing on keeping the contents of her stomach contained.
A crack split the air. With a flash of light, a tall figure, far taller than the goblins, appeared before the king’s dais. Harper drifted closer.
An elf.
Raven hair tumbled over his shoulders. As he turned to survey the horde before the throne, Harper saw a stern face, his violet eyes conveying wisdom, strength, and anger. Fine garments clothed him from head to toe. A jewelled sword hung at his waist, the pommel glowing red. He looked like he belo
nged in Dimitrius’s royal court.
“Pascha,” he said, and inclined his head to the goblins.
“Lord Saradon,” snarled the goblin upon the throne, his mouth struggling to form the syllables.
A tingle shot through Harper.Perhaps I misheard. It is so loud, and he cannot speak the Common Tongue well. But she stared at the elf all the harder, recalling Aedon’s tale of the dark elf Saradon, whose mark she bore on her charm bracelet.
“You bring me no gift?” snarled the leader of the goblins.
The elf narrowed his eyes and turned back to him. He gestured at their surroundings. “I gave you Afnirheim. That is more than sufficient to show you my intent.”
The pascha laughed, showing bloodied, pointed teeth, and waved at the hall before him, which teemed with swarming goblins. “Take what you want of the spoils, Lord Saradon.”
“I do not need your loot. I need your scourge.”
“And you shall have it.” The pascha grinned wickedly. The scourge of goblins around them shrieked and cavorted with glee at the prospect of further conquest.
“Good.” Saradon’s lips curled into a mirthless grin. “I expect you to come when the banners are called.”
The pascha hissed. “We do not take orders from Elfkind.”
“But you will take mine if we are to succeed,” said Saradon forcefully. He took a step forward.
The pascha’s eyes seemed to unfocus for a moment as his gaze slid away. “Yes, we shall,” he said dully, before he blinked rapidly and returned his attention to Saradon.
Saradon gazed around them. His lips thinned as he viewed the goblins with distaste. “I shall leave you to your...spoils.”
Harper floated away as the sounds, sights, and smells receded, fading into darkness once more.
SHE WOKE UP ON THE ground, Aedon’s cloak wrapped around her, a warm hand upon her forehead. She opened her eyes slowly. Above her, stars pinpricked the night sky. The shadowed faces of Aedon and Brand, cast in the fire’s glow, hovered in her vision.
