by Jaxon Reed
The first dwarf tugged at his tunic. Reluctantly, Tomlin stood up and followed him toward the gate, leaving Beet in the dwarves’ care.
Trant guided his horse toward the black-clad woman near the command center. He noticed she held Deedles. The two seemed to be looking into one another’s eyes.
He pulled his horse to a stop, and holstered his lance. The tip was bloody, and some entrails were still stuck to it.
He climbed off the horse and patted it gently on the neck. It was one of the very few horses surviving the battle, although it had suffered nicks and cuts all over.
He approached the woman, still staring into the eyes of the blind cat. She looked up when he came closer.
“The wizards are trapped. We’ve never seen anything like this.”
He wondered, briefly, who she meant by “we.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“No. Deedles has an idea.”
He furrowed his brows. The cat had an idea? She ignored the look on his face.
“Deedles says it’s a tri-part spell. Darkstone cast three globes ensnaring their location. The first spell immobilized them, but it was much stronger than a standard Spell of Immobilization. I don’t fully understand it, but Deedles calls it a Spell of Suspended Animation.
“The second spell moved them into another dimension, but still within our universe.”
He frowned then, in genuine confusion. She nodded in agreement with his confusion, not fully understanding everything herself.
“The third spell is a time trap. Within the outer globe, time has stopped altogether. I’ve never seen anything like it and I doubt anyone else has, either. So they are in suspended animation, in another dimension as well as a time sink. But like I said, Deedles has an idea.”
Trant scratched his head and decided to venture a question.
“That’s, uh, Margwen’s cat, right?”
Mita nodded, absently.
“She wants me to conjure a simulacrum.”
Trant raised an eyebrow.
“You know, I was raised by a wizard. I never did catch a whole lot of his magic, though. What’s a simulacrum?”
“Well, you’re familiar with facsimiles of people, right?”
He nodded. Trant was well used to the manor’s servants and dealing with facsimiles of rulers and members of the nobility Greystone thought he might need to know.
“A simulacrum is a copy of an object instead of a person. In my case, since I’ve never done it before, I’m afraid it’s going to be a very crude copy. But, Deedles thinks that’s all we’ll need.”
Trant nodded again. It was all above him, but he didn’t care so long as she could save Greystone and the others.
“So, what are you going to make a crude copy of?”
“The Forlorn Dagger.”
Chapter 18
Margwen followed the nannies out the gate carrying clean rags for them. There were simply too many who could not make it to the church, and the nannies decided to do what they could out on the battlefield now that the fighting was over.
Margwen felt utterly useless in the makeshift hospital. She had no medical training, and had never seen much blood before. She decided to do what little she could by assisting the nannies.
But when she walked out the magic gate, the sights and smells of the battlefield nearly overwhelmed her. Dead and dying men everywhere. Dwarves slowly sifting their way through corpses, ever alert to kill someone else if they looked the least bit threatening. Dead horses. Broken metal men. Scraps of armor and discarded weapons scattered about.
She gasped when she saw Trant. She handed the rags off to someone else, and hurried over to where he stood near his horse. He spoke with a woman wearing black leather armor that covered her head to toe. And she had Deedles in her arms.
“Trant! Thank the Creator you’re alright!”
He looked battered, but his horse looked worse. Then she turned and looked at the young woman holding her cat. She gasped again when she recognized her.
“Princess Mita? You are Mita! I met you before, when we visited the Crystal court. I’m Margwen of Coral.”
Mita nodded at her, just as a couple dwarves carried a wounded man up to them on a stretcher.
“Are ye medical? This one’s about t’ bleed out.”
Margwen covered her mouth with both her hands. The dung shoveler from the stables had a large gash down his shoulder and across his chest. His entire front was covered in blood.
Mita bent over him and waved her hand across the gash, conjuring heat and cauterizing the wound. The boy screamed in pain and passed out, but the bleeding stopped.
“He’ll live. Take him to the triage station over there.”
Mita pointed the way. The dwarves nodded. One of them tipped an imaginary hat to her. They picked the stretcher up and took the stable boy away.
Margwen looked at Mita with a mixture of awe and the beginnings of something that possibly felt like jealousy. She looked up at Trant, but he was watching Mita, patiently waiting for something. Even Deedles seemed focused on Mita.
Mita looked up at Trant, coming to a decision.
“I’m going to try it.”
Margwen felt genuinely mystified now. She bit her tongue, though, since she had obviously come in late to the conversation. She decided to just watch and listen.
“I don’t really understand how you’re going to do it,” Trant said. “You are going to use magic to create a crude representation of an object that absorbs magic? How does that work?”
“Deedles says if I have but a memory of something, I can conjure its likeness.”
“But it absorbs magic. How does something made by magic take away all magic? It doesn’t make sense.”
“The dagger does it.”
“Yes, but it’s made from star metal. And it was fashioned by hand, not magic. This is a representation of the dagger to be created by using your magic. You’re trying to use magic to create something that takes away magic.”
Mita held her hand up to stop him, before he could confuse himself further.
“This will be a poor representation of the original, but it will serve the purpose I give it, and that is to absorb the magic from this particular set of spells trapping the wizards. It will not be as good as the true Forlorn Dagger, which absorbs all magic. But it should work for us in this instance.”
Mita paused and looked down at the cat, then back up at Trant.
“Deedles says we just need faith. If she believes it will work, I do too.”
Trant dropped it. How could he argue with a cat, anyway?
Then other questions occurred to him.
“What are you going to do with it after you make it? How will it free the wizards?”
“Deedles thinks if it pierces the globes, it will dissipate the traps and the wizards will be set free.”
He nodded, scratching his arm where a sword had nicked it while he thought. He could think of no reasons for the plan not to work.
Then he had one.
“How are you going to get it up there? You won’t be able to fly, and it’s too high to throw.”
“I’m going to use Darkstone’s idea and lash it to a lance. The lance will be unaffected. Let me borrow yours.”
He nodded. He grabbed it off the horse and handed the weapon to her. She took it and set it on the ground. Then she sat Deedles on the ground, too, and turned her back to everybody.
Deedles began bobbing her head up and down, cautiously patting the ground in front of her before taking a step. Margwen walked over and scooped her up. She started petting the cat, and Deedles purred in appreciation.
Stin and Bartimo supported the priest between them, and approached Isabeth and Anabella who were sorting the injured according to their chances of surviving. Those who looked like they were going to make it were given low priority. Those who could live with help were given immediate attention. The dead and soon to be dead were placed respectfully at a distance.
Anabella looked at the priest and his wounds and decided he would live without immediate assistance. She directed the men to bring him to the first group. They set him down gently on the ground with the others. One of the dwarves walked up carrying a bucket of water and a dipper. He gave Robrigo a drink.
“There ye are lad! I’m glad t’ see ye made it.”
Stin and Bartimo turned to see Dudge walking up to them.
“An’ you too, Master Stin! Here as promised are three more gold coins. Yer horse is still out in th’ field. I think th’ lads are using him t’ move th’ injured. I fear th’ spell has worn off. He’s back t’ his plain ol’ self again.”
Stin nodded as he accepted the gold coins. He transferred them to his purse automatically, without thought or feeling. Then he sat down in exhaustion beside the priest, and took a dipper of water offered to him by the other dwarf.
“Bartimo, our friend Barley dinna survive th’ battle.”
Bartimo was tired, and still in shock himself, but he raised his eyebrows in surprise. He sat down heavily next to Stin.
“But don’t ye worry, lad. His son lives, an’ th’ deal ye made be still good. Iffen ye show up at Osmo a month after Winterfest with a thousand island doublets, ye’ll get yer thousand kegs o’ beer from Barley’s brewery. Tha’s a promise backed up by th’ crown, lad. You show up wi’ th’ gold, an’ we’ll get ye yer beer.”
Dudge spat in his hand, and held it out to Bartimo. Bartimo spat, too, but a little blood from the corner of his split lip came out with the saliva. They shook firmly.
“We’ll see ye in Port Osmo after Winterfest!”
Dudge walked off a ways, then turned and shouted back, “You bring th’ gold, an’ we’ll bring th’ beer!”
Bartimo waved tiredly at him.
“I got it. We’ll be there with the gold.”
Then he laid down on his back, and immediately fell asleep from exhaustion.
Bellasondra and Kirt headed toward the gate along with others who could still walk. They had looked among the dead where the halberds fought, and found no sign of Bartimo or Stin. Bellasondra felt hope in her heart that both had made it through the battle alive, but already the dwarves were clearing corpses off the field to be buried. Many of the wounded gathered near the gate, so they headed in that direction.
They passed Greystone’s butler facsimile, who directed some dwarves as they carried the wounded.
“I say! Right then, lift him carefully. There we go, gents. There we go.”
She heard one of the dwarves comment as they passed, “Odd feller. S’pose tha’s how all their servants talk?”
Horse passed them, carrying a cartload of dwarves and wounded soldiers. Kirt was excited to see Horse. The spell had faded, and he was back to his old self, along with the cart Stin had stolen in Ruby City seemingly so long ago.
Horse turned to look and snorted at them, as if to acknowledge their presence, but he kept heading toward the triage station without letting up.
Finally Bellasondra and Kirt arrived at the station. Another one of Greystone’s servants, the facsimile of an incredibly attractive woman, had taken over directing traffic so the nannies could tend to the wounded.
“Dead and dying over there. Those needing immediate attention here. Survivors needing less attention can have a seat in the group closest to the gate.”
Bellasondra looked bewildered at the hundreds of people in the groups of the living. The dead group seemed far larger. Where to start?
Kirt tugged at her dress and pointed.
“Over there! I see Stin!”
She looked, and saw Stin sitting down in the not critically wounded group. A couple of other men near him were down on the grass. She and Kirt hurried over to them, Bellasondra’s heart racing with a mixture of hope and fear.
They came up to Stin, and Kirt nearly knocked him over with a big hug.
“Easy there! Don’t squeeze too hard, it hurts.”
Stin awkwardly patted Kirt’s back.
Bellasondra saw her brother sleeping on the ground next to Stin.
“Is he . . . Is he alright?”
“Who, Bartimo? Yeah, he’s fine. He’s just sleeping.”
She let out her breath in a huge sigh of relief, and bent down to kiss Stin on the lips.
Moments later, they heard three loud explosions in the air above them.
Mita kneeled and held her hands above the ground, concentrating on the spell Deedles had explained to her. She closed her eyes and recalled everything she could remember about the Forlorn Dagger, and placed it in the spell.
Thick black smoke streamed from her hands to the ground. Slowly the smoke coalesced, forming a solid black knife.
She looked down at it once the spell was finished. She knew it didn’t look exactly like the real Forlorn Dagger. She had never gotten a chance to examine it closely. But, this one should have many of the same attributes.
She picked it up.
Immediately, she felt her power draining. She stood up holding it, and turned back to the others.
“It’s taking most of my power, but not all of it.”
“You see? I told you,” Trant said. “You’re using magic to make something that absorbs your own magic. I knew it would be problematic. I knew it—”
Mita held up one hand for him to stop talking while she concentrated on Deedles.
“Deedles says it should still work for our purposes. I need some rope or twine.”
Trant and Margwen looked at each other.
“Oh! I have some twine. We used it at the hospital.”
Margwen shifted Deedles to her other arm, and pulled out a length of twine from one of the pockets in her dress. Mita thanked her, and took it from her. Then she lashed the dagger to the tip of the lance, just as Darkstone had with the original.
She grabbed the lance and held it up, waiting a moment for all her power to rush back.
“Wish me well.”
She shot up in the air and headed toward the large flickering globe surrounding the command platform.
Mita wondered for a moment if a simple prick of the blade would do the trick. It had been enough to dissipate Theena’s facsimile, but that was the original blade. She decided to take no chances. She flew back several dozen paces, then charged the globe with the lance and dagger.
The outer globe exploded. The force would have knocked the dagger back had her momentum not carried it forward, and the second globe exploded a scant second later. Then the third.
She stopped, the force of the explosions absorbed by her suit. The air was filled with thick black smoke. She waved her hand and a strong breeze kicked up, blowing all the smoke away.
On the platform all the wizards stared at her, their blue Globes of Protection glowing bright from absorbing the blast.
Oldstone smiled, and started clapping. The others quickly joined in.
Greystone said, “And, this, gentlemen, is why you should always bring a battlemaiden to war with you!”
Margwen walked hand in hand with Trant as they meandered among the wounded. He tried to speak with every surviving villager, offering words of comfort and encouragement. Each person seemed grateful for the effort, many expressing their thanks to him.
Margwen realized he felt responsible for the dead and wounded. Even though he was a prince without a country, he considered these vagabonds, criminals, those running from their past, and all others who ended up in Greystone Village as his people. Likewise, they considered him their lord.
Was a lord ever so loved by commoners? The question kept inserting itself into her mind as they walked among the wounded. An old lady who had shot arbalests lost her leg when an Emeraldian soldier chopped it off toward the end of the battle. She cried and cried, her head buried deep in Trant’s chest.
He hugged her, helping her balance on the one leg, and wiped back his own tears.
“Bless you, Lord Trant. May the Creator bless you all your days.”
He gave her shoulders a fi
nal squeeze before setting her down gently and moving on to the next wounded person.
Margwen found herself wondering if her own father were as well loved by his subjects. She tried to think of a similar situation in which he had walked among the commoners, talking with them, and she couldn’t come up with one.
In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she herself had spoken to a commoner before this trip, if she did not include the palace servants or her guards.
They came to the edge of the group closest to the gate, and a rider burst through from the village. He wore the colors of Coral, and pulled the reins hard to stop his horse. He put a bugle to his lips and sounded a royal entrance note.
Moments later, several more horses trotted through the gate, many carrying the royal flag of Coral in their lance holsters.
In the middle of the group rode King Keel. He looked their way, and immediately spied Margwen. He motioned with his hand, and they rode over to her and Trant. The horsemen pulled up before the couple, reining to a halt.
Keel smiled widely.
“I did not expect to find you here, daughter.”
Margwen frowned at him, then looked up curiously at Trant.
“Is this another facsimile?”
Trant chuckled.
“No, I’m afraid this really is your father. Well met, Highness. I am Crown Prince Trant, firstborn of Tren and Karla, the former rulers of the Emerald Kingdom, and rightful heir to the Emerald Throne. I bid you welcome, although I fear you are a little late to partake in our battle.”
“By the Hightower, I had no idea a battle was being fought. Certainly not one with my daughter nearby! Earlier one of our wardens reported a strange sight on the road. He saw a dwarf riding a warhorse and wagon as fast as possible. Since the dwarf traveled the road to Norweg, I didn’t think much of it. They come and go on rare occasion. But when an army of dwarves riding battlepigs rode back in the opposite direction, I thought trouble must be brewing somewhere near our border.
