Star Axe

by Duncan McGeary

  Soon they neared the foothills of a huge mountain, which Molnar dismissed with the name of Crakoa. But Kenlahar was amazed by its size. The Prince then brought out some filthy rags from his bags, fully as filthy and infested as the poorest commoner, and ordered Kenlahar to put them on. Kenlahar was about to refuse indignantly, when he saw the Prince bring out another set of rags and begin to put them on himself.

  “The horses are worth stealing of course,” the Prince said. “But we may as well make ourselves as little tempting as possible.” The hills were infested with bandits, he explained. Now Kenlahar understood why the mountain range was called the Sanctuary.

  “The outlaws have always been a nuisance,” Molnar said. “Now they seem to have organized under some fellow named Whistler.”

  The road led north up the mountains, crisscrossing back and forth into the low mists. Soon, for the first time in his life, Kenlahar found himself above the cloud level. They flowed like a slowly melting layer of ice. Only the mountain Crakoa pierced the tray ocean. It was fully as wet as his native country; yet here, instead of the swamps, was a tangled growth of greenery.

  Soon they had entered the lava fields. Here, the Prince explained, the Sorcerer King had called forth the very substance of the earth and sent it against the Starborn. But Lahar had called upon the Star Axe—there was no break in his story at the mention of the weapon—and sent it back. Beneath them were thousands of men, trapped forever in the rock. They had come upon the field in the bright light of afternoon. Glass obsidian nodules glittered red and black in a background of dull black lava. The trees were bright red and yellow against the uneven field.

  Molnar ordered him to dismount and they led their horses onto a narrow trail in the lava flow. Without the rough, winding path their shoes would soon have been ripped apart. After a few hours the lava stretched in all directions beyond the sight of the travelers, a vast sea of jagged rock. Occasionally they would come across islands of earth, covered by virgin wood. Some were quite large and once within, Kenlahar could almost convince himself that he was in a large forest—but as they approached the summit of the pass, the oasis became fewer and fewer.

  Finally it seemed to Kenlahar that they were headed downhill. Then there was no doubt. The trail suddenly veered severely down a steep slope. It was frightening, for the barren terrain seemed to emphasize the steep incline. The Prince and his horse went down it without hesitation, so he followed without comment.

  Halfway down, Kenlahar could touch the side of the mountain on one side and drop a pebble onto the trail beneath from his other hand. He felt dangerously top- heavy while the horse swayed precariously over the drop. Every time the horse tripped slightly, Kenlahar’s heart would seem to stop briefly, despite the blasé, weary attitude of his nag. Luckily, the skinny horse simply followed the other horse, and Kenlahar had to do little except try and stay on.

  Soon, as they descended again into the mists, even the side of the mountain disappeared; all that could be seen was the trail, twisting before them like a ghost.

  The Qreq chose this moment to attack. Out of the mists on both sides of the trail came eerie cries of “Qreq!”, and following them he saw the albino skins of the enemy flash in the dull gray mists. The Prince immediately drew Toraq’s Bane, but Kenlahar was too stunned to reach for the Star Axe. “Use the battleaxe!” he heard Molnar cry out as the war party of Qreq split. Half of the enemy force headed for each of them. The frightened horse saved Kenlahar for a few moments by bounding recklessly down the trail, but out of the mists another party of Qreq moved to intercept him. Reluctantly, Kenlahar removed the Star Axe from its sheath. But he did not need its power.

  Out of the mists came the ragged shapes of the farmers of the Borderland. The Bordermen were silent, but deadly; their weapons crude, but effective. What they lacked in skill, they made up in numbers and determination. Out of the mists they came, surrounding and cutting off the Qreq. They began to close in with an eerie silence to their deadly strokes. It was not a battle, Kenlahar thought, but a massacre. Kenlahar watched in shock, and the Prince in open-mouthed amazement, as the farmers cut off the Qreq’s only routes of escape. The Qreq ceased shouting their war cries, and concentrated on their fight. Soon they quit fighting, and ran, thinking only of surviving. But the Bordermen showed no mercy.

  When the slaughter was done, the farmers bowed as one and disappeared one by one into the mists. They carried off their dead and wounded in their arms. Too late Kenlahar realized that they were leaving. “Wait!” he cried. “Let me heal your wounded!”

  “Let them go,” the Prince said. “They are not important.” Molnar had dismounted and was examining the bodies of the Qreq. He did not seem surprised by their deliverance—perhaps he believed that it was his due as heir to the throne. Nor did he seem concerned with the deadly potential of his subjects.

  Kenlahar, however, was surprised and did notice. One of the last of the Bordermen gestured at the Prince threateningly behind his back with a scythe. Silently, Kenlahar shook his head, and then the man was gone. There was no sign of their presence but the bloody bodies of the Qreq.

  Molnar had begun to question Kenlahar about their attackers. “What are they?” he asked, kicking one body curiously. Kenlahar had often wondered what made the Qreq so strange. As a healer he suspected a hereditary disease—or one given them purposely by the Warlord—that made them unnaturally quick and tall, and obedient; but which had the ugly side effects of loss of hair, color to the skin, and all body fat. But he had never seen a Qreq up close before, much less examined one, so he had remained unsure.

  Here, Kenlahar thought, was his chance to tell his story. The evidence to support him was lying on the ground—his appeal might even have a chance now. Perhaps the Prince of Kernback would give the House of Lahar the help it needed.

  But he was too shocked by the attack to talk. Over and over again he asked himself why the Qreq should have strayed so far from their Havens to attack two men. Perhaps, Toraq had maintained a watch on the barrow, in case his dagger should be found. But that was to assume that all the legends were true and that the Hermit had actually been a Raggorak, guarding Toraq’s Bane!

  Yet Kenlahar believed that the Dirk had not been the only motive for the attack. He was certain that the Warlord not only knew that the Star Axe had left the House of Lahar, but knew where it was!

  The two continued the journey speechlessly. As they once more approached the lower lands, the air began to smell different—dry and fragrant. The terrain showed a lack of moisture. Jigsaw-barked pines stood tall and alone, with only low scrub brush at their bases. It was a hot day, and when they reached a swift river they both plunged into it. Afterwards the Prince changed back into his colorful clothes and Kenlahar into his own traveling clothes.

  There seemed to have been a shift in status, and for the first time the Prince was pleasant to him. Molnar no longer seemed in a hurry, and they spent the rest of the day fishing for the huge trout in the stream. “We are on the outskirts of Kernback,” the Prince said. He began to talk lovingly of his kingdom.

  After’ the Raggorak had finally been overthrown, Molnar admitted, the Kingdom of Kernback had fallen into a dark age. But with the ascension to the throne of his family, the kingdom had grown magnificent once more. As Molnar talked on, Kenlahar began to sense the truth behind the words. The quick succession of rulers told of times of great turmoil. Later he was to see the lands and cities going to waste—a great decimation of the population had occurred. The mighty city-state that dominated the Outside, was in these later centuries, just a village compared to its former bustling metropolis. Yet it still remained the center of power, and all who wished power must travel to Kernback.

  Nevertheless, the Prince was in a mellow mood and Kenlahar felt it was time to tell his story. Molnar listened without interruption, his eyes glowing at the passages dealing with the Star Axe. He did not seem to doubt the tale, nor was he frightened. To the people of Kernback and its dominions, the Sor
cerer King was no more than a half forgotten legend—a bogeyman with which to frighten their children. They had forgotten that his evil made the worse evil of their villains seem petty. At the end of the story, the Prince exclaimed, “Do not worry, Kenlahar. The Kingdom of Kernback will save the House of Lahar! Tomorrow we shall see the ivory walls of my city. Any doubts you still have will disappear when we stand before the throne.”

  The afternoon had passed with the telling of the two tales, and they prepared for bed. But Kenlahar did indeed have doubts, and he grasped the Star Axe in his hands protectively as he fell asleep.

  CHAPTER XI

  Molnar was impatient to leave early the next morning, announcing grandly that they were now within the dominions of Kernback. But it was not until after a hard and dusty day of riding that they began to sight tended, structured farmlands. The few inhabitants seemed to melt into the checkered countryside at Molnar’s approach. The evasion was discreet, but it was noticeable. As the two tired and filthy travelers neared the first of the large manicured estates, only one of the tenant farmers came forward to greet them. The farmer apologized profusely about the need for harvesting that had drawn the others away, but even Kenlahar could tell that he was not telling the truth. Kenlahar also saw that the man was terrified, though the Prince was virtually alone and undefended. Prince Molnar, all charm and graciousness, waved away the explanations.

  This breed of farmer, Kenlahar observed, was far different than his proud, but much poorer cousins in the Borderland. The man was well fed and clothed, but fawning and servile—even to Kenlahar, a stranger dressed in little better than rags. The man led them toward a pine lodge, set beside a small, clear stream at the center of the estate. The master was away, he said, and nervously explained that this was Herald’s Manor, the land of the noble and munificent Sar Devern. The Prince of Kernback, of course, was always welcome at the Herald’s Manor.

  The empty dining room was spacious and the long table was set with glittering gold and silver. But Molnar insisted on informality and simple fare, and they were taken instead to the workers kitchen. The kitchen drudges sprang to work, terrified, but pleased by the honor of the Prince’s presence as well. Midway through a luncheon of what seemed to Kenlahar to have the proportions of a feast, he saw the reason for their fear.

  A thunderous approach of horses was accompanied by a roar of pain from Molnar. The Prince spat out the shattered pieces of a tooth. The kitchen slave who had served the bread cowered on the floor before him. When the soldiers entered, an ominous quiet hung in the air. The leader of the troops seemed astounded at the sight of Molnar, but immediately recovered from his surprise and bowed. “My Prince!” Then he noticed the looked of pain in Molnar’s face. “What has happened?” Molnar waved a hand toward the girl, and said through tense lips, “This slave served me bread with a stone in it!”

  The commander of the soldiers hesitated, and then reluctantly shouted out crisp orders. Molnar’s vicious tone had left him with no choice. Several soldiers took her away roughly.

  Next, Kenlahar was beckoned for. “You know the art of healing,” Molnar said. “Heal!” The Prince of Kernback was becoming more and more imperious as they neared the city, Kenlahar noticed bitterly. He wondered what would happen to the girl.

  Within minutes he had extracted the rest of the tooth. Molnar bit down on a fluff of cloth and nodded to the leader of the troop. “Sar Devern. I appreciate your appearance. But—” he raised an eyebrow, “what is the need for soldiers?”

  “My Prince,” the scarred warrior answered. “Much has happened since you left. Strange things…

  His voice trailed off and he looked at Kenlahar with a question in his eyes. “We were on our way to investigate the latest of the reports. Something has destroyed our border post at Sige Tomar.”

  “Ah—brigands,’’ Molnar mused.

  “No, my Prince. These brigands were not human.” “I see,” Molnar said, eyeing Kenlahar with the same expression as Sar Devern’s. “I believe I know of what you speak. I must return to the city at once. I will need two of your freshest and fastest mounts.”

  “I shall form an escort immediately,” Sar Devern said, saluting and turning to leave.

  “No,” Molnar barked, stopping the old soldier at the door. “Go on to Sige Tomar. I do not wish an escort, or any fanfare. I want to surprise my mother, the Queen.” From outside came the scream of a woman, which was suddenly broken off. Kenlahar shuddered, but Molnar seemed as unconcerned with the servant’s execution as he was of the panic the reports of massacres had created in the farmers.

  The next morning, on schedule, the troop set out for the Borderland. Kenlahar and Molnar rode out through the gate just behind them, but turned down the road in the opposite direction.

  The road became wider and smoother, and crushed red lava stone rose in a cloud, covering everything that moved through it. The two started to meet other travelers, who scurried off the road at Molnar’s approach. Moving swiftly along the road at first, soon even they were clogged in the traffic of carts, livestock, and humans.

  Out of the flat farmlands, in the far distance, rose two hills. Neither was tall, yet they seemed enormous on the level plain. On their peaks were the White Walls of Kernback. The white ivory which coated their stones came from a species of tusked animal so long extinct’ that none could remember the creature’s name, the Prince explained. The blinding glare of the reflected sun off the ivory was a formidable defense on sun-filled days, Molnar boasted. From it came the proud cry of the citizen of the city-state: “Cast down your eyes before the White Walls of Kernback!”

  Kenlahar was indeed forced to turn his eyes from the sight, for the glare hurt even from this distance. The road split, and most of the side traffic went on to the north; a very few travelers turned south. But Molnar went straight, by way of a narrow path that wound between and behind the two hills. In this untraveled, deserted region, Molnar finally turned to face the sheer cliffs. The shadows rose swiftly from the plains, as the sun went behind a cloud, up the reddish cliffs, until only the White Walls remained, brilliantly lit—then their glare also winked out.

  The disguised portals of a staircase were revealed from under the rubble of an overhang. Molnar bounded up the secret staircase two steps at a time. Kenlahar, with a tired sigh, began to follow as fast as he could. The granite steps were dusty and narrow, and circled in a tight, steep spiral. The air was stale and what little light there was came from a small shaft far above. Kenlahar was breathing deeply from the exertion and coughing up the thick dust as a result, when he noticed the black gap the stairs created to his right. In the dim light, with his thoughts turned inward, he had been negligently stepping only inches from the deep hole! From that point on, he trailed his hand along the wall.

  Molnar had apparently left him far behind, so when Kenlahar reached a small opening to the left of the stairs, he gratefully turned into it—escaped the thick dust, the yawning hole—and postponed for a little while the meeting with the Queen. Kenlahar could see no purpose for the tiny room; it was a featureless square, except for the curious height of the entrance and the lack of any dust.

  As far as Kenlahar could tell the staircase was endless, and it seemed to him that he had been climbing for hour upon hour. Muscles he thought had been toughened by his long trek now protested at his new test of his endurance. But when he had rested, he moved on. It was only his hunger and thirst that drove him upward. The dust caught in his throat, and his belly cried out for food.

  He had once again turned into one of the small rooms for a rest when he heard Molnar’s returning footsteps. “There you are!” the Prince said. “What is taking you so long?”

  As they marched on up the steps, Kenlahar noticed that despite Molnar’s best efforts, he too was breathing hoarsely, and no longer seemed interested in going on ahead without Kenlahar. So, at Kenlahar’s pace, they reached the seventh and final of the small openings. The dim light, he now saw, had come from a conical shaft which
now revealed darkening skies.

  Molnar paused and ran his fingers over the stonewalls. He nodded to himself in satisfaction and motioned for Kenlahar to join him. He swept Kenlahar behind him with one arm, and making one last mysterious hand movement over the face of the stone, squeezed back against the wide entrance. The wall started grinding toward them and then, at the last moment, swung away—blocking the staircase and created an opening the wall. The new doorway was curtained off.

  “Thus even our secret passages are defended,’’ Molnar said proudly. “Only one, or at most two, grown men may enter the halls of Kernback through these entrances.”

  Molnar was whispering. Kenlahar, in the same hushed tone, asked, “Where are we?”

  “Where?” the Prince echoed, and smiled. “We are at the entrance of my mother’s domain. Now, wait here. Do not enter until I call for you.”

  Molnar vanished through the curtains. Presently, Kenlahar heard muffled voices, then Molnar’s distant, but unmistakable voice calling his name. Unable to imagine what lay beyond, Kenlahar drew a deep breath and parted the curtains.

  He emerged on the floor of a huge crater, stretching from one side of the mountain peak to the other. He stopped, in awe of the man-made volcano. The lip of the crater towered over him, instilling in Kenlahar a sudden irrational fear of being buried alive by the massive cliffs. The smooth walls curved away into the dark, and night skies sparkled at the center of what had once been solid rock. The floor was smooth and seamless and the black polished surface reflected the stars above, creating a sense in Kenlahar of being suspended in space. With a shudder he saw the red moon of Bantling hanging directly overhead.