by Meg Cowley
The tide seemed to turn when the goblin horde stumbled back into the dark halls under the growing light and dwarf attacks. Korrin’s forces advanced upon the mountain, their triumph buoying their pace. However, the fortunes of battle changed once more. Storm clouds grew until the sky darkened to a dim gloom. The shrieks of the goblins cacophonied anew, for the darkness was their domain, and they flourished within it.
Once more, they poured forth from Afnirheim with such force that the dwarven lines were halted, then rebuffed, and suddenly, the goblins had the advantage on the slightly higher ground, the chaos of the battlefield behind the dwarves providing no sure footing or place to form effective ranks.
Now, the dwarves no longer seemed strong and inexorable, no matter their weapons, armour, and order. The feral goblins, as slippery as smoke, held the advantage, moving easily over the carnage. As the dwarven lines thinned, Harper once more felt true fear carve into her when she saw the gaps begin to widen as the dwarves were forced to retreat under the onslaught and regroup, or try to regroup, behind the muddy, bloody battlefield.
She acted upon instinct, the true benefit of Brand’s, Aedon’s, and Erika’s training becoming apparent, the ingrained movements saving her neck on several occasions. Despite her fear, it gave her joy to know that she was no longer helpless, and she revelled in the feeling, channeling her fear and energy into magic and battle. She used every part of it to hold the goblins back.
Fire and lightning flew at them, charged upon her blade, smiting them and sending them fleeing, shrieking and singed. She drifted farther along the line, leaving her companions behind as she sought out targets.
Korrin’s horns sounded just as the dwarven lines fractured under the seemingly endless onslaught. Retreat! Retreat! The dwarves fell back, across the quagmire of the dead, to the far slopes of the valley, where they would once more hold the advantage.
Harper continued to move with a knot of dwarves, barely registering that she could no longer see Erika’s whirling blades, or Brand’s wide wings, or Aedon’s darting form. During a slight lull, she looked up to view the battlefield. No matter that the valley piled high with twisted goblin bodies covered in black blood and grime, far higher in numbers than the fallen dwarves, the goblins kept coming, flooding in a constant torrent from Afnirheim’s fractured gates.
She did not see the goblin until it was too late. He seemed to fall upon her with great speed, brandishing a cruel, jagged blade in his claws, teeth bared. There was no time to raise her blade. She was as good as dead.
Thunk.
Forty-Two
The goblin’s head flew from its shoulders as Brand’s giant blade swung before her, the big Aerian seemingly appearing from nowhere.
“I was fine!” she maintained, shouting across the maelstrom. He rolled his eyes before cutting another goblin clean in half. She knew her sting of annoyance was only aimed at herself, at her lapse.
“Thank you!” she shouted, turning away again.
“Stay close!” he thundered. “Stay together!”
“I can handle myself!” Had she not already proven it? I’m alive thus far.
He did not respond. Perhaps he had not heard, for the din still raged around them. She could not even hear herself over the ringing in her own ears and the pounding of her heart.
Yet she could not mistake the figure wreathed in shadow and flame who appeared before the doors of Afnirheim. Saradon stalked from the city, casting his gaze and his magic this way and that. With every step, he blasted those around him indiscriminately, and goblins and dwarves alike fell before him.
Suddenly, Harper quailed in fear, feeling riven by it to her core. She turned, forging her way closer to Brand, even as he battled to make a path back to the rest of their companions. Now, she realised how much she needed them, needed to all work together to stay safe.
It seemed that all stilled for just a moment as Saradon’s raw power crackled through them all. She was not sure if she had imagined it, though, for in the next instant, all was as before – the din, the onslaught. Dimitrius’s warning rang in her ears, but she had a feeling it was already too late to heed it.
Her heart skipped a beat when she saw him, too, standing in the shadows behind Saradon. But Dimitrius made no move, neither to aid the goblins nor the dwarves. His gaze slid to the giant Aerian, then to Harper. From across the distance, she saw his flash of gritted teeth and knew he had perceived her. Knew he probably hurled a curse her way for not heeding his warning, which had been given at such great risk.
She noted how pale and drawn he was. She had not noticed it in the dark when he had sought her. He looked sick with worry. The tight lines around his mouth and eyes. His apprehension. That scared her more than anything. He was more powerful than any of them, save perhaps Saradon and his dark magic. How much worse was Saradon for him to fear?
She suddenly realised the flow of the battle had changed. Even as the dwarves retreated with renewed vigour at Saradon’s appearance, so the goblins advanced with new purpose. A great knot of them surged straight for Harper and her companions, just as Saradon locked eyes with her across the valley. She saw the gleam of white teeth as he smiled with open satisfaction.
There was no way to hold them off, for the scourge of goblins was so overwhelmingly huge. The dwarves around them either fell away in retreat or were cut down where they stood. Rough, clawed hands dragged at them all, overpowering them, even Brand, with the sheer weight of numbers. But they were not torn to shreds, though the goblins made no effort to be gentle.
Instead, they were pulled and dragged – sometimes in different directions until their muscles and joints strained – heaved in a great, writhing mass, deafened by the shrieking that was far too close for comfort. They were prodded and poked all the way to Saradon’s feet. With a flick of his finger, they fell to the ground, where he immobilized them with half a thought so they lay in the blood and dirt, unable to defend themselves.
Harper turned her head as far as she could, looking up at Saradon, who glared down at them all with grim glee. Her attention flicked when Dimitri loomed beside him, his face marred by barely concealed worry as he met her gaze, then looked away, as if somehow fearful Saradon would see his attentions upon them...upon her.
Saradon spoke in a harsh, jarring tongue, his attention straying to them for a moment before the goblins once more leapt upon their prisoners and rushed them into the dark of the mountain. The last thing Harper saw before the darkness enveloped them and the ruined doors boomed shut was the last of the dwarves fleeing into the tree line.
THE JARLSHALLE OF AFNIRHEIM, ruled by a dwarven lord rather than a könig, was smaller than the königshalle of Keldheim. It was made even smaller by the darkness within. Columns loomed in the space, but above them was darkness. No faelights shone in the tall, thin alcoves at the side of the hall. The floor was dark with ash and blood, and the emptiness stank of death and decay.
Saradon awaited them, like a king standing before his throne.
With a single word from him, their captors hurled them to the floor, then rushed out in a cacophony of shrieks and snarls. The doors boomed shut, the sound echoing from the bare walls, until all fell to silence.
Unconsciously, Harper drew closer to her companions as they tightened their knot, all eying the dark figure standing on the dais before them. His raven hair was an even darker black in the dim light, but his skin glowed an unsettling red colour in the ruddy light of the fires burning in braziers about the hall. They belched smoke that added to the stench of the tainted halls, but it at least covered up the worst of the odours.
But the dark could not hide his piercing violet glare, which bored into them all. His attention sent her skin crawling as she moved even closer to Aedon, Brand, and Erika, wishing she had paid more attention during the battle.
Perhaps if I had stayed closer to them all, if I had not strayed so far, we could have escaped. But as Saradon’s gaze swept over and through her, she knew she ought not blame herself.
He sought me. I would never have been able to outrun him. I ought to have heeded Dimitrius’s warning.
Even though she felt as weak as a fawn before him, she was grateful for her companions. At least she could find strength in their presence. For the first time, she truly realised how much she needed them, relied on them for her safety.
Saradon advanced. The raw tang of his power preceded him, whipping and crackling through the very air until it hummed with the strength of it. It felt wrong in a way no other magic did, turning her stomach and tainting her own well of power in a way she could not explain. As he drew closer, she realised how very small she felt, for he towered over her in both height and imposing presence.
“Daughter of my blood, I welcome thee to my halls,” he said to Harper, baring his teeth in a terrifying smile.
Fear flashed through her belly.
Forty-Three
It wriggled through him like a slippery eel, sending his nerves on edge and making it almost impossible to stand still. But Dimitri had a role to play. So, like a statue, he stood at the fringes of the hall behind Saradon, not letting the chasing trepidation take him.
Harper and her companions lay upon the floor, bound where Saradon had restrained them with invisible bonds of magic after the hulking Aerian and the feisty nomad had tried to attack him. Dimitri knew it would have been fruitless. It irked him. Were they so ignorant as to believe such folly had any chance of success?
Yet he could not miss the desperate glint in their eyes. They knew what they faced. And it was not within them to die anything other than a warrior’s death. He respected them for that, as futile as it was.
Not like me. Skulking in the shadows, playing games of intrigue and deception. Cowardly, he berated himself.
He knew Saradon’s intentions, but he could do nothing as Saradon advanced on the girl, raising her with his magic so she hovered before him, though she could not move a muscle. Harper glared at him with fear and defiance. Dimitri suppressed a smile. She was right to be scared, but he was glad to see that not all of her will had yet been tamed.
“I will have the truth, girl,” threatened Saradon. “Better that it be what I seek, for if not, none of you are any use to me.”
Harper went rigid, her muscles cording, eyes bulging, nostrils flaring, as Saradon dove into her mind. Dimitri stiffened, barely stopping himself from taking a step toward them, from raising his own powers against Saradon. Partly in defence of Harper. Partly because he feared what Saradon would see in her mind...of him. He held himself ready – to attack, to flee, to react in whatever way he needed to.
After several moments, Saradon laughed delightedly. “So it is as I suspected!” He whirled on Dimitri, baring his teeth in a wild grin. “I have seen. She holds a vision of it from the dwarven hag seer.”
Dimitri gave him a tight-lipped smile in return, relieved that Saradon had clearly not seen anything to incriminate him.
THE INVASION INTO HER mind was not like her conversations with Dimitrius. It was not the gift of a vision or a shared discussion, but an intrusion, a perversion of that privilege, that left her feeling violated. It made her want to shake and vomit, as though the visceral reactions of her body could expel his touch like a bad meal.
Saradon turned toward her once more, spreading his arms wide and taking in Harper with a different sort of attention, one that seemed to see her for the first time. She was not sure it was better.
“I could not have dreamed it. What fate must it be to stumble upon the last of my flesh and blood. It gives me fresh faith that perhaps my machinations were meant to be so long stalled. You were meant to come to me.”
He must have relaxed the bonds upon Harper, for she scowled and spat, a great globule, as far as she could at the half-elf, though it landed far short of him.
He glared at her, but his glee could not be stymied. “No matter. No doubt you know not of your heritage. Girl, you will be the queen of an empire when I am gone. Pray, what is your name?”
Harper regarded him in silence for a moment before she raised her head, jutting out her chin as she eyed him boldly. “I am Harper of Caledan, of Pelenor, of House Ravakian, Mother Blessed, and Fated One, named Frelsa by Vanir.”
Saradon clapped his hands together. “Oh, you have my fire, daughter. Oh yes,” he said with a knowing smile. “You are a born lady of my House now. A princess in your own right, if your true lineage be accounted for. But one step at a time. I release you from your bonds.”
He slowly lowered her to the floor, where she stood shakily.
“Together, we will avenge my son’s and your mother’s deaths.” He rumbled with a flicker of anger, and his brow darkened at the thought. “I saw the death that was wrought for your mother, and I will discover what happened to my son...and who is responsible. I promise it will be avenged. Come. You have no need of them now.” Saradon gestured at Aedon, Brand, and Erika, turning away.
Harper moved between Saradon and her companions, crossing her arms. “I go nowhere without them.”
Saradon’s attention slid to them, glancing over them in more detail. “You travel with curious companions, daughter.”
Harper squirmed at the word. “Don’t call me that,” she said, scowling.
Saradon pursed his lips, but did not respond. “Who do you travel with that you would guard so? Do you bring me more allies?”
“Never,” Brand spat from behind her.
“Come, you cannot reject me,” Saradon said, his tone honeyed, but with a dangerous venom. “You do not know me. Only rumours that have been twisted for half a millenia.”
“We know enough...see enough to know that we will never ally with you,” said Harper, calling on her magic.
Saradon snuffed it out in an instant without even twitching. His form darkened once more, and the entire hall seemed to darken with him. Even the flames within the iron braziers flickered out for a faint moment before sputtering back to life.
“Do not be so foolish, daughter. I will wrest it from all of you if I must. Whom do you travel with? I will decide their use.”
“I travel with Aedon Lindhir Riel of House Felrian, Br–”
Before she could finish, Saradon hissed. She was shoved aside by his magic, and Aedon dragged forward to sprawl before him.
“You. You are of House Felrian? How relate you to Raedon, he who killed my granddaughter?” Saradon snarled.
Aedon did not answer, but Saradon had it a moment later when he seized it from Aedon’s mind. His attention wholly focused on the elf, he advanced, seeming to grow by the second, shadows building behind him.
“Oh, it was indeed fate that brought you here, foolish elf. An eye for an eye shall be taken, the blood price exacted. I will relish your slow punishment. You will pay for the pain caused to mine own, elf.”
Aedon held his head high and his jaw firm. His eyes darkened, showing no apprehension at the half-elf’s words. Harper wondered if he was scared.
Surely he must be.
Had Harper’s own body not coursed with fear, she would have felt a flutter of respect, but it was crushed under the torrent of terror that rampaged through her. How would they ever escape now? It seemed futile.
At that moment, the doors crashed open. The stench announced their company before Harper could twist to see who joined them. Her heart leapt into her throat.
The biggest, ugliest, most foul and dark goblin she had ever seen advanced through the hall. He wore dwarven armour in a mockery of their style, for it had been ripped and patched to fit his grotesque form. As he approached, loping with an unbalanced, animal-esque gait, she saw his necklace was of the metal and jewel dwarven beard embellishments she had seen Ragnar and his kin wear...and bones. She dared not wonder whom they belonged to.
He was too close for comfort as he prowled past them, taking no small interest in the small knot they formed in the center of the hall. His goblins followed, cavorting, chattering, and shrieking as they flooded into the space, surrounding them.
Wi
th a word from Saradon, barked harshly and loudly, they retreated, grouping by the doors.
“I will have an audience,” said the pascha in twisted Common Tongue. He stood firm, though his kin deserted him under the threat of Saradon’s crackling magic. “These prisoners are mine. Give them to me.”
Saradon snorted with derision. “You presume too much, pascha. They belong to me, and I will not yield them.”
At his words, the goblin chieftain hissed and settled into a crouch, his clawed hands twitching as though he wished to attack Saradon, but did not dare.
“I will remind you,” said Saradon through gritted teeth, “how I have already delivered you conquest beyond your greatest desires and capabilities. You shall have nothing more of me through greed. I take my own conquest. They are mine.”
Harper’s attention flicked between the goblin and the half-elf. The goblin was closer. If he turned upon them, if he attacked... She had her dagger, but her dwarven sword had been lost in the heat of their capture. She had no idea whether her companions held any of their own weapons, and she did not dare take her attention from the goblin to look. It mattered not, for they were still bound in their magical bonds.
It was as if Saradon had the same thought, for he raised his hands, which now contained crackling, dark flames.
“I will not warn you again. You intrude upon my business, pascha. I will not suffer it. This hall is mine. You will not come here again without my permission. Leave now, and do not think of these prisoners again. They will be beyond your reach. Go and find sport with your other captives.”
The pascha’s eyes, hazy and unfocused, slid over Harper and her companions. To her surprise, she watched as he turned and ambled away, almost as if in a daze. At a crack of thunderous magic from Saradon, the rest of the goblin horde shrieked into life and fled, too. The doors boomed shut.
