by Meg Cowley
Twenty Three
As the dwarven armies of Valtivar swept down the rise, a flashing silver, flowing wave against the hard, grey rocks and dulled evergreen foliage, Ragnar swallowed past the lump in his throat. Partly for the savage beauty of his people defending their homeland, partly for the bloodshed that was to come. Jarl Halvar stood beside him in grim-faced silence before the left flank of the army they were to command, ready to follow their brothers into the fray.
They were to lead, amongst others, the legendary cavalry of Himmelheim, who rode upon giant, hardy, sure-footed mountain goats, curling horns as thick as arms.
“I did not long to see this place again,” Halvar said, his voice dark. “We lost too many, and their spirits haunt the dark halls we seek to conquer to give them peace.”
“We will do it,” Ragnar said, more confidently than he felt. “The könig would not risk a third assault for nothing.”
“No,” Halvar said after too long a pause. The silence held their shared worries. He turned away. “Come. We must follow.”
His booming voice carried across them all as he called them to ready, then to advance.
The Himmelheim cavalry flooded past Ragnar and the others on foot, as planned, to sweep away any resistance in the valley. Though it was daylight, goblins still lingered on the fringes of the trees and cliffs, dithering in the shadows.
The clashing din ahead showed that his kin had found their enemy, and the black swarm poured forth from the gates, eager to repel the dwarven liberators.
Ragnar’s heart leapt into his mouth as he unbuckled the giant, double-headed axe from his belt and held it ready before him as they ran at full speed to join the front line. He grasped it with both hands. Even so, it slipped and slithered in his grip. His two missing fingers and maimed thumb struggled to mould themselves to his old weapon. The two forces met with sickening crunches, shouts, and screeches. Ragnar tightened his grip again and called forth his long-forgotten training.
Swipe, strike. Stab, feint, slice, retreat. Step, slice, stab, step, gut.
The axe had a mind of its own in his hands as he adjusted to his new fighting style, the ghosts of his fingers still seeming to be there, yet offering no help. The stubs stung from his tight grasp as the shaft became bloody and slick, sending burning pain through his hands and up his arms.
It felt as though his entire world became nothing more than steel and blood, with the iron of his brothers’ lives mixing with the salty, sour tang of goblin blood, and the clanging, skittering, and screaming of steel and iron deafened him until he could no longer remember the sound of song, laughter, or the wind rustling through trees.
Ragnar’s vision became nothing but flashing metal, claws, and teeth, only the rush of battle keeping the terror at bay. All he could smell was death and decay, the fetid smell of the goblin scourge, and he retched between swings of his axe.
The flow of battle turned, then turned again, dwarves pushing forward only to be driven back, striking once more and faltering yet again. Halvar fought shoulder to shoulder with Ragnar, both spattered and drenched in mud and black gore, whilst brothers fell around them, picked off one by one by the relentless horde they could not seem to defeat.
Ragnar, pushed back once more and safe in a knot of dwarves, cast his head back to the sky and the cold greyness that cast down upon them all with indifference, his energy and hope at an ebb. For every dwarf there seemed a hundred goblins, yet for every hundred they cut down, more appeared.
Would there ever be an end to the infernal scourge? Despair rose. He could hear nothing over the ringing in his ears, but Halvar’s lips moved. Ragnar frowned, until the words made it through the din.
“Fall back! Fall back!”
The cry was taken up by a thousand mouths as it spread along the ranks, then they were flowing away from the fractured gates of Afnirheim once more, across the bloody mire of a valley, up the rise, chased by the emboldened goblins, who oozed from the bowels of the city like a sea that would drown them all.
A ray of sun slipped through the clouds far above them, spreading cold, pale light onto the carnage, before it was quickly hidden once more. Ragnar turned his face to it, trying to capture any of the faint warmth, but he was too late. He stopped dead in his tracks at the shadows that had obscured the sun.
A tremor spread through him, before he was swept up in the tide. Yet they were no longer retreating but regrouping as the cry rippled amongst them.
“Dragons! The dragons are here!”
Relieved, hope surged through his heart once more. The General of the Winged Kingsguard had answered their pleas, and the dragon riders of Pelenor would rain down fire on their enemies.
“All is not lost, brother!” said Jarl Halvar with a wild and fierce grin, clasping Ragnar’s forearm as Ragnar adjusted his grip on the axe–slick with blood and gore.
“Form ranks. We charge again!”
With renewed fervour in his heart, Ragnar turned back to the never-ending tide of black before them. Whilst they drew breath, there was hope.
Twenty Four
The lashing, icy rain had not abated, but though it soaked them all to the bone, Landry was glad, for it was extra cover on the dark night. His heart hammered with the blow of every drop’s strike as he scanned their surroundings and the road ahead for the thousandth time, then glanced back again to check that Aislin and Shayla were huddled close behind him.
Landry shouldered their pack, filled with what provisions he and the boys could spare out of the measly rations the Order’s latest decree gave them. He had given Aislin and Shayla most of them, as the twins insisted. They would work with empty, grumbling stomachs and dulled heads, but the price of their mother’s and sister’s freedom was worth so much more.
Aislin led the horse, hooves muffled by fabric, with one hand, Shayla’s small hand clutched in her other. The girl, wide-eyed and fearful, slunk close to her mother. Landry gave her a warm grin filled with false bravado as they crept through the deserted streets of the lower quarters of Tournai, hoping this would be the worst of the fear that she felt.
He had used every single spare coin from their savings for the bribe. The curfew was edict, to defy it was death. But one small gate left open in the dark of night in the midst of a storm...
Landry quickly led them to it, though each moment felt like an age, his nerves shot with tension at seeing black cloaks in every shadow and weapons in every reflected fragment of light in the puddles pooling upon the cobbles.
His shoulders sagged in relief. The gate was shut but not locked. He twisted the handle and pushed it open slowly, wincing at the creak, and peered outside. Empty. The entire street was empty. Even in the best of times, no one chose to frequent this end of the city.
He led Shayla and Aislin through, into the allotments on the other side of the thick walls. For a moment, they hovered in the shadow of the walls as Landry removed the scraps of fabric muffling the horse’s hooves.
Landry pulled Aislin close, crushing her in a bear hug, trying to infuse her with all his fervent love and the urgency she would need to see them both free. His hug to Shayla was less strong, but no less earnest, as he felt an ache fracture his heart. How wrong it felt to see his family split, and in the dead of night in the midst of a storm. But split they would to save them all...he hoped.
Shouts behind them from inside the walls. A spike of fear, a surge of rushing urgency.
“Go now,” he said to her, and Aislin mounted without a moment’s delay. Landry scooped Shalya into his arms and passed her up to her mother, where she sat encircled in Aislin’s arms. He could barely see their faces under the cloaks in the crushing darkness.
“I love you.”
“I love you. I will find you.”
Before he could break, he slapped the horse’s rump. It broke into a trot before Aislin nudged it into a faster lope through the winding allotments and down the hill, into darkness.
Landry rushed through the wall, closing the gate and swear
ing under his breath at the lanterns bobbing his way. Too close for comfort. He wrapped his dark cloak close and bolted across the narrow way to the shadows of an alley that would take him, in a winding way, back to the safety of his home.
HIS SONS’ CRUSHING embraces met him as he slipped into the unlit hall, for he had not wanted to open a door that would spill light onto the street.
“Are they safe?”
“Did they escape?”
“What happened?”
Landry stepped back, holding a hand to stymie them as he removed his wet cloak and hung it by the fire in the kitchen to dry. “They’re gone,” he said hollowly. “I do not think they were seen.”
His sons huffed and exclaimed with relief, but Landry sank onto a chair, the ache in his chest replaced with empty numbness. Here was where she cooked for them all, where they broke bread. There was where she had told him, one night long ago, that she was with their first child, neither realising the surprise of the twins would bless them. There was the rocking chair where she had nursed all their babes, where he had rocked them to sleep in the silent hours to give her a respite.
Wordlessly, his sons crossed the space to him.
“It’s not forever.”
“We’ll be with them soon.”
A warm, comforting hand grasped his shoulder.
He hoped they were right, though he could not see how. Word had already trickled from the markets that cities across Pelenor declared fealty for their new king with no fight. Saradon and the new Order seemed to be able to overcome all in their way–and not peacefully, for just that day, Landry’s forges had received more unwelcome guests, in the form of higher Order members, who were to imbue the blades he made for their ranks with dark spells.
With the introduction of the rations, which were far less than any of them were accustomed to surviving on, and new taxes for the “rebuilding of the great and fair Pelenor”, it already felt as though the city of free folk became little more than chattel themselves–slaves or prisoners. Permits were now required for any folk wanting to leave the city for any reason, with leisure or freedom of will being lost amongst them. There had been no option but to sneak Aislin and Shayla out, for fear of raising questions.
Now he would have a worse part to play–a grieving widow and father. He looked to the boys, who nodded, their expressions as grim and firm as his own. Without their further sacrifice, their deceit would be uncovered.
Landry took a hot coal from the fire, placed it into a pan, and carried it upstairs. He took one last look at the bed he had shared with her for all those years, cast his eyes to the heavens and asked for forgiveness, then tipped the coal into the sheets.
The hungry fire within took hold of the fabric and tore across the coverlets before leaping to the furs on the floor, the wooden frames of the furniture, and the thatch on the roof.
“Come on, Father!”
His sons swore behind him as the blaze devoured the dry fuel.
They rushed through the house, grabbing what they could, before bursting out onto the street, which was already illuminated with sickly orange light from the blaze that had burst through the thatched roof, hissing as the slowing rain pelted it.
“Fire!” they screamed. “Fire!” They rushed to the well that serviced the street to collect buckets to begin putting out the blaze, though it was already futile. Neighbours tumbled out to help, and the booted feet of the Order tramped upon the street before they, too, lent a hand, for if it were not stopped, one burning house could damn the city.
“My wife!” Landry bellowed. “My wife and daughter are in there!” The grief etched into his face was every bit real, the tears streaming down his sooty face, the ragged sobs choking out through the smoke billowing around them all. He had lost them, and it felt like they were as far away as death that night.
Long into the night, the neighbourhood battled until the fire was out, but all that remained of Landry and his family’s home was a smoking ruin. He and his sons sobbed on the cobbles, taking no heed of the sodden ground or that they were all dirty and aching, as neighbours offered quiet, tearful support around them.
WHAT IS THAT?
Tristan squinted at the orange, flickering glow but could not see it any more clearly. There were often fires in the city, but rarely above the slums and poorer districts. This one looked like it was an important place, for the fire burned high, well fed.
“What are you staring at, boy? Get back to work!” the caretaker snapped at Tristan, spittle flying from his quivering, grey jowls.
Tristan ducked away from the window and his momentary reprieve, cursing that he had been caught. Here, he was nothing more than “boy”, reduced from Initiate to servant as his punishment.
“It’ll be the belt next time, boy,” the caretaker warned. His hand twitched, as though he would change his mind. Tristan scurried away, sweeping brush in hand. The backs of his legs already bore two deep, angry welts from the last lashing he had gotten. Anger spiked in him at the cruelty of even the lowliest of people within the Order. Was no one kind?
Yet his duties helped him earn somewhat of a respite. He did not wear the full black cloak of an Initiate, or even the half-cloak of Acolyte. Now he wore dirty, brown rags that were invisible in the milieu of this new, dark world he found himself in. All the better for spying for his new master.
Tristan did not know what to make of the elf called Dimitrius, but he had been kind to him, helped Tristan escape his previous punishment. Soon, once his penance was complete, he would return to the ranks of Initiate, all for the price of secrecy and whispers. That did not seem as bad as the rest of what went on within the Order.
He pushed back the tangle of hair from his sweaty brow before he set to sweeping again. Up one corridor, down another, pausing every once in a while for a short break or to peer at something interesting. A shelf of stoppered, crystal bottles in a subterranean study halted him. He drifted closer. They were filled with different coloured liquids, strange objects floating within. Strange, fleshy objects. Tristan peered closer and shuddered as he realised one was a clawed, furry finger of some beast.
At voices in the corridor outside, Tristan started. Khyrion! He did not need to incur any more of the First Grandmaster’s wrath–or anybody else’s. Tristan’s heart hammered as panic sheared through him, and he did the first thing he could think of–hid his brush behind the cupboards and dived into one, folding his slim frame into a tangle of limbs and closing the door with a careful hand just as the Grandmaster and his company entered.
Barely daring to breathe, Tristan listened, waiting for the thud of his blood rushing through his ears to subside. He trembled, forcing himself to still as much as possible, crushed against the now chaotic pile of items in the cupboard. It would all be over if he were caught.
Why in Pelenor did I do this? he asked himself with dismay. I could have ducked my head, walked out. They probably would have never seen me...
It was too late now.
“Precisely.” Khyrion’s droning, nasally voice distracted him as the Grandmaster paced the study. “It’s a matter of numbers. We do not have enough presence in the Lowlands as of yet. I have some sources within the House of the Steward of Eyre who tell me there are promising rumbles of malcontent within Eyre itself. We may yet be able to gather strength there, then spread through the south.”
A clatter right above Tristan’s head sent his heart hammering and fear spiking through him once more. Just a drink. He’s just decanting something. Sure enough, Khyrion returned the flagon to the top of the drawers with a dull thump and smacked his lips.
“You really think it will be so easy?” a sceptical voice answered him.
Khyrion chuckled. “Never. But we already command the Highlands and Pelenor itself. The matter of the Lowlands will soon be resolved, I have no doubt. They are in no fit state to muster against the full force of the rest of Pelenor, should it come to it.”
“Isn’t the Steward of Eyre related to the spymaster?�
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Tristan narrowed his eyes. He had no understanding what they spoke of, but the snatches seemed important. He tried to memorise every word.
“Yes. That ought to help us, if the spymaster is as faithful as he proclaims. The allegiance of his family will be tested and noted.”
Tristan could not miss the disgust and doubt in Khyrion’s voice.
It seems like this spymaster could be important, Tristan mused. I’ll have to tell this to Dimitrius...
A rap on the door. A hushed discussion. A huff of disgust from Khyrion. “No. If he summons you, go. I will remain here a while. I have business to attend to.”
The creak of a chair. The scuff of it sliding across the stone floor. The shuffling of papers. The scratching of a quill.
Tristan sat there until his entire body seemed frozen stiff and his eyes dropped with weariness, for it was already into the late hours of the night. At last, Khyrion rose and left. Tristan waited a while more until the last of the candles burned so low it seemed dark outside the cupboard, before he slipped away upon aching legs.
DIMITRIUS FOUND HIM, as he had promised, and Tristan slipped into the alcove behind him.
“What news do you have?” Dimitrius asked, his arms folded.
Tristan cleared his throat and repeated, as best he could remember, what had been said in the room. “I didn’t hear much else. There’s been a fire in the city, but I don’t know anything about it. And...” He searched his mind, to no avail. “That’s it.”
Tristan stood in silence, his head hanging, hoping it was enough. He could make no sense of it. Perhaps it would not be good enough. Perhaps Dimitrius would be disappointed. Perhaps he would punish him. Tristan scowled at the floor.
“Good, good,” mused Dimitrius.
Tristan looked up at the shadowy figure, surprised to see him staring at nothing.
