by Jaxon Reed
The imposing image of a dwarf wizard was carved in relief on the door, one hand held high behind his head, the other to the side, a spellcast glowing. Runes and symbols surrounded the doorway’s edges. Above it all, stark letters made a bold pronouncement: Here lies Lok the Terrible. Fear his name, all ye entering.
Evidently, Dudge thought, Rak had not feared his uncle’s name enough. Several bodies lay strewn about the door, abandoned. They remained there until Dudge and his bodyguards found the tomb. The former portreeve had apparently ordered his people to try and break in. Whatever happened killed everyone and scared Rak away. He left the bodies to rot.
Over the days and weeks since the discovery, Dudge brought work parties down into Port Osmo’s municipal quarry, through the drainage tunnel and into the crevasse leading to the hidden chamber. The bodies were carefully removed and interred in the cemetery outside Port Osmo, buried into the side of a mountain with proper funerals for each one.
How they died remained a mystery, but no one doubted magic was involved. Dwarves, like humans, had magic. But it was typically subtler and often understated. It usually expressed itself in things like finding streaks of valuable ore, or fashioning nearly indestructible blades, or other things dwarves deemed imminently practical.
Lok had been different. Unusually gifted among both humans and dwarves, he not only sought magical knowledge, he desired to use it for dominance. Lok wanted to control both realms, and he came close to achieving his goals. It took most of the wizards with the help of human armies and an unparalleled coalition with the dwarves to defeat him. Neither group could take him down alone, but combined they were able to do so. Barely.
Lok was supposedly killed in the Battle of Hest. But in the messy aftermath, his body disappeared along with many of the weapons and magical artifacts he had collected or created.
For a century, worries about Lok’s return gnawed at those recalling how evil he had grown. None other than Oldstone himself assured King Nudge that he not only participated in Lok’s death, he had no doubt the evil dwarf suffered injuries beyond any recuperative spell’s ability to bring him back. Something about his head being sliced off. And so, concerns slowly ebbed over the next 300 years.
But the body remained missing, along with the artifacts. Eventually, the general consensus came to accept the fact his surviving followers must have spirited the body away somewhere. Perhaps, as a common rumor suggested, he had been taken to his lair and laid to rest.
Each human wizard kept a secret location where he could retreat and practice magic without interference from pesky people always demanding favors. Often such places could only be reached by magic, such as Oldstone’s floating castle. Lok, it was said, had been no different. He created someplace private, known only to a select few. Perhaps they had interred him there along with his weapons.
Obviously, Dudge decided, the speculations were true. Here was the sealed tomb of Lok himself as proof.
The last dwarf out of the narrow passageway on the side of the door was the old quarrymeister. Dudge had found him in the city and recruited him for this task once the bodies were removed.
He stood slightly stooped, a crook in his back from working rocks all his life. His gray beard reached almost to the floor. In fact, if all the red ribbons in his beard were to be untied, Dudge thought, it doubtless would reach the floor.
He looked the old-timer in the eye and said, “Well?”
The quarrymeister knuckled his forehead, acknowledging the prince.
“They took a lef’ turn.”
No one smiled at the old saying, common among dwarves who spent time in the mines. It referred to disastrous choices made deep underground, usually while cutting new passageways in the rock.
Dudge nodded, understanding the literal as well as the figurative meaning of the old dwarf’s statement. All of Rak’s efforts to open the door failed. His workers had cut through the rock on the right side of the door, then at some point attempted to turn left and enter the chamber.
“And y’ think their lef’ turn triggered somethin’?”
The quarrymeister nodded. “Aye. Th’ pick be still buried in rock. I tol’ th’ lads t’ nay touch it. I reckon when th’ pick struck, th’ chamber’s defensive spells activated . . . killin’ e’reybody.”
Dudge nodded again, silently agreeing with the old dwarf’s assessment. He looked up in the flickering light at the giant image of Lok towering above them.
The old dwarf stared up alongside him. He said, “Y’ reckon i’ be safes’ t’ leave things alone, Highness?”
Dudge said, “I’ be safes’ . . . fer now. Bu’ we needs t’ get in there. Now tha’ e’eryone ken where th’ place be, others will be tryin’ fer it. Best we be in firs’.”
“I dinna think ye’ll get many volunteers t’ take another swipe wi’ th’ pick.”
They smiled at one another.
Dudge said, “Aye. We need a differen’ tool.”
“An’ wha’ would tha’ be?”
Dudge’s smile grew broader. He said, “We need a wizard.”
Chapter 1
Endrick woke up to the sound of birds chirping in the trees above. He propped himself up on an elbow, and Thanden slid off his stomach onto the ground with a thump. He snorted at the tiny creature, who likewise roused from slumber and stretched his thin little arms.
Thanden had proven useless in guiding Endrick the night before. Although outwardly exhibiting confidence, even exuberance about leading Endrick to the Forlorn Dagger, the rogue sprite soon grew disoriented in the rapidly darkening woods. He began flying in erratic circles, growing increasingly agitated, until he spiraled down to the forest floor exhausted.
Disgusted, Endrick had sat down too, and leaned against a tree trunk as darkness gathered. Sometime during the night he nodded off.
Now he stood up, dusting off leaves and twigs. Thanden flew up level with his face, the putrid green aura around the little creature brightening a little with the morning light.
Thanden rubbed circles on his belly, licked his lips, and pointed at the food bag Quartzstone left them yesterday. For such a tiny body, the sprite’s appetite seemed enormous.
Endrick scowled, snatched the bag and held it behind his back.
“No breakfast until we find that dagger!”
Thanden hung his head low, as if Endrick’s words deeply wounded him. Then he looked up, his face brightening. He held up a finger as if struck with inspiration and flew off in a crooked line through the trees.
Endrick’s stomach growled. He shifted the bag into his other hand and followed after the sprite.
The morning light seemed to help Thanden. Within minutes he had found a small clearing near what appeared to be some sort of wide path leading deeper within the forest.
In the middle of the clearing, someone had built a hovel made of fallen branches, an old tarp, and scraps of broken wagons.
Sitting in front of the hovel was a large man with a thick neck and a head full of dark auburn hair that evidently had not been washed or combed in years. His eyes lit up at the sight of Thanden, who hovered in place as Endrick caught up.
“Hullo!”
The big man awkwardly rose to his feet and Endrick got a better look at him. His tunic was too small and an extended belly poked out. The breeches might have been fashioned from unbleached cotton, but were so stained with dirt, grass, and other things that Endrick could not be entirely certain of their origin. They were held up, barely, by an old length of rope tied around the man’s thick middle.
He took a clumsy step toward them and reached out a tentative hand toward Thanden.
He said, “I’m Dirt. Who’re you?”
Thanden turned back to Endrick and made a sour expression, sticking his tongue out. He pinched his nose and waved the air in front of his face.
Endrick nodded in agreement. Dirt stank.
He said, “This is Thanden. My name is Endrick. We are but travelers in this wood. May we break our fast with
you?”
Reluctantly, Dirt shifted red eyes caked in grime toward Endrick.
He said, “I ain’t got no food to share.”
Endrick realized with a start that Dirt must be a simpleton. It certainly explained the poor choices in attire, and the hovel.
“No matter,” he said, betraying no hint of his realization. “Thanden and I have some we can share.”
He opened the bag and peered inside to see what remained of the wizard’s supplies. Thanden had proven to have a bigger appetite than he did. The sprite rubbed his belly again and danced excitedly in the air over Endrick’s shoulder as they approached the hovel.
Dirt pointed at the half-devoured carcass of a small decapitated animal and said, “I done ate. Caught a field mouse.”
He grinned, showing bits of fur stuck between his black teeth. Endrick swallowed, holding down the urge to retch. Dirt’s body odor grew much stronger as he came closer.
Endrick pulled out the remaining food in the bag, a melon and three apples. Thanden snatched the melon out of his hand, and swallowed it whole. Endrick jerked his head and watched the sprite eat in amazement. The fruit was bigger than Thanden, but somehow the little fellow downed it in one gulp. He looked fatter than normal for a few seconds, like a frog’s throat full of air, then quickly shrank back down to his normal size. Thanden smacked his lips in satisfaction.
Pulling his attention back to the task at hand, Endrick said to Dirt, “Uh . . . apple?”
“Sure. I don’t get many of those.”
Rather than draw closer to him and his stench, Endrick tossed one of the apples his way. Dirt caught it, clumsily.
Thanden rubbed his belly and licked his lips, eyeing the remaining apples. Endrick tossed one to the sprite and Thanden snatched it out of the air with his mouth, swallowing it whole again.
Furrowing his brows at this second act of magical ingestion, Endrick bit into the third apple before the sprite could ask for it.
Dirt bit noisily into his, drool dripping from his chin. He looked up and smiled at Endrick.
“Mm, good. Thankee, stranger.”
Endrick regarded the simpleton carefully as he finished off his own fruit. The man appeared unarmed.
His personal smell is likely defense enough, Endrick thought. He certainly did not relish the thought of coming any closer than he had to.
“Dirt, my good man?”
“Mm?”
Dirt finished off the apple, nibbling down to the core.
“I have a question for you and a favor to ask. It seems I lost my dagger in these woods some time ago. I wonder if you might have seen it?”
The big man stopped eating and the apple core dropped to the ground beside the mouse carcass. His bloodshot eyes squinted and he lowered his head, staring suspiciously at Endrick.
Dirt would not make for a good Primero player, Endrick thought.
Dirt said, “What kind of dagger?”
“Well, it was a special kind of dagger. It’s very near and dear to my heart.”
“What’d it look like?”
Endrick paused. Quartzstone had not bothered to give him a detailed description of the Forlorn Dagger. He did mention one outstanding characteristic, though.
“Well, you see, it’s not your typical shiny metal dagger. This one is black.”
Dirt’s eyes widened and his head rocked back in surprise. Then his expression changed again, this time to one of sullen stubbornness.
“Yeah, I seen it. Finders keepers, I says.”
“That’s certainly true,” Endrick said. “But . . . if I could get my favorite dagger back, I would certainly reward the finder quite handsomely.”
“Ain’t nothing to spend on out here, nohow.”
“This is true, this is true,” Endrick said, thinking furiously. “I know! How about a lifetime supply of apples like the one you just ate?”
“A lifetime supply?”
“Sure! Why, if you give me the dagger, I’ll bring you more apples than you could ever possibly eat.”
The big man furrowed his brow, lost in laborious thought. Endrick felt he could read the simpleton’s thoughts by the expressions on his face. Unlimited apples? No doubt the knife began to seem rather useless in light of this possible trade.
Dirt looked up with a glint of mistrust in his eyes.
“How do I know ye’ll bring more apples iffen I gives it to you?”
“Well . . .” Endrick looked down at his own half-eaten fruit, suddenly regretting his choice for breakfast. “You will have my good word as a fellow traveler.”
Seeing undisguised doubt in Dirt’s eyes, Endrick realized he would have to come up with something better.
With no more food to be found, Thanden fluttered aimlessly around the clearing. Dirt’s attention wandered from the conversation to the sprite, following his erratic path through the air.
Endrick said, “He’s quite the character, isn’t he?”
“Don’t see many pixies up close. They all flies away from me.”
“Actually, Thanden here is a sprite. Similar to pixies, but they’re larger. They have different powers and . . .”
He trailed off as it became increasingly obvious that Dirt was not listening. Dirt seemed fully entranced with Thanden’s progress. Thanden completed a rough circuit of the clearing and neared their side again following a zigzag line.
Endrick felt an idea blossoming as the sprite approached them.
“I tell you what, Dirt. You give me my dagger back, and I will allow Thanden to stay here until I return with your first cartload of apples.”
A look of pleasant surprise crossed Dirt’s face.
He said, “You’d do that? For me?”
He looked at Thanden then gave Endrick a silly grin.
For his part, Thanden flashed Endrick a shocked expression, his little mouth wide open. He shook his head and waved both hands frantically.
Endrick said, “Oh, yes. I think he would be delighted to spend more time with you. He’s quite the agreeable companion. Aren’t you, Thanden?”
Horror spread across Thanden’s face. He slowly spiraled down to the ground and passed out, covering his head with one arm in a dramatic fashion as he fell over on his back.
Dirt said, “Deal!”
He moved quickly to the entrance of his hovel, his large frame squeezing in. Endrick held his breath and moved closer, carefully stepping over the mouse carcass and apple core.
Dirt turned and walked out holding a bejeweled leather scabbard, with a black hilt sticking out.
“Here it—”
Dirt stopped and looked down in surprise at the shortsword’s blade sticking in his chest. It angled up under the rib cage, slicing directly into his heart. He dropped the Forlorn Dagger and weakly gripped the sword, locking his bloodshot eyes with Endrick’s.
“Why . . . ?”
He collapsed to the ground in a fetid heap.
Endrick placed a foot on Dirt’s body and pulled the blade out, wiping it on the soiled tunic. His nose wrinkled at the smell, and the fact that now the blade seemed even dirtier than before. He walked over to a patch of grass beside the hovel and continued wiping it clean from there.
He returned to the entrance and grabbed the Forlorn Dagger, slipping the sheath between his belt and waist. He felt what little magic he possessed slip away.
Walking out of the clearing he passed Thanden, still passed out on the ground, and resisted the urge to kick the little sprite into the trees.
Instead he said, “Get up. It’s time to summon Quartzstone.”
Thanden opened one eye and saw Dirt’s body slumped in front of his hut in a pool of blood. He stood up, saluted, and flew off on a crooked path behind Endrick.
-+-
Stin held the inn’s door open for Bellasondra while Kirt guided Horse down the street toward the stables. No one waited by the inn to help with horses. Few people could be seen in the streets. The population of Greystone Village was severely reduced since the battle a
gainst Emeraldian forces led by Darkstone. But Kirt remembered where the stables were, and felt he could get Horse stalled and fed without help.
Stin and Bellasondra’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the lower light inside. During that time the innkeeper recognized them. He smiled and came out from behind the bar to give them a warm hand of welcome.
“Come in, come in, friends. It’s so good to see fellow survivors of that terrible day. Will you be here long?”
“Mayhap,” Stin said. “It depends on if we find the directions we seek.”
At the sound of his voice the only other two people present in the common room turned to squint at Stin. Both of their chairs made scraping sounds as they simultaneously pushed back from the table.
“Steck!”
“Bwa-ha-ha! Lord Fortune!”
Stin turned and smiled at Veeroy and Plinny as they approached. Veeroy arrived first and clasped his arm. Skinny and brown-skinned, with dark brown hair, he had the look of someone graced by time outside in lots of sun and saltwater.
Plinny pushed him out of the way and gave Stin a bear hug, popping the bones in Stin’s back.
He said, “Bwa-ha-ha! I can’t believe y’ made it!”
Veeroy said, “Boy, are we sure glad to see you, Steck!”
The two could not appear more different, Stin thought. Veeroy stood skinny as a rail, while the giant Plinny towered over everybody, his body mass outweighing all present by several stone. They turned their attention to Bellasondra, with her long dark hair tied back in a tail for travel, and her olive skin showing a glowing tan from several days in the sun.
“Why, hello,” Plinny rumbled, smoothing back imaginary hair atop his bald head.
He gave Bellasondra his best smile, sticking his tongue between two missing front teeth, accentuating their absence.
He said, “You look awful familiar, missy. Have we met afore?”
“Best keep your distance,” Stin said. “Besides the fact she’s mine, the last time you saw her she almost stabbed you with her sword.”
“Well, I don’t recall such an incident,” Plinny said, “and I certainly don’t recall your name.”
