Shadowless

by Randall McNally

  ‘I have called this emergency meeting of the council in response to the incident which took place this morning. As always, only the heads of each guild may speak, anyone else doing so will be escorted from the room.’

  He looked at the faces sitting around the table and turned to a scribe on his left.

  ‘For those of you who do not know,’ the king said – the scribe wrote furiously – ‘this morning Bulros attacked one of our scavenger crews, killing all of them, one of whom was only a boy. Now the question we need to ask ourselves is ‘What are we going to do about it?’ We have had problems with the dragons before, we can all agree on that. So, is now the time to act?’

  The king twirled his sandy moustache.

  Jorgi Sizebith, a squat man with white hair, who led Dragonov’s stonemasons, the Pebblecrushers, was the next to speak.

  ‘We can’t let these creatures kill any more of our people, we have to take a stand,’ he said, looking around the table for support, his face red with anger.

  ‘What is your solution: kill them all?’ asked a tall, gaunt man at the far end of the table.

  This man’s face was pale, his skin loose and wrinkled, his robes turquoise and black with swirling lines of blue and green embroidered on them, representing air and water.

  ‘What would you have us do, Vuln? Sit and let these things prey on us, like cattle waiting to be slaughtered?’ Jorgi snapped.

  A black-haired man with olive skin, the youngest of the guild leaders at the table, ran his fingers along the lines written on the parchment that had been placed on the table in front of everyone. Manshu-Döuw, was the leader of the Dark Shields and he wore the robes of his guild, light grey emblazoned with a black shield.

  ‘A lot of the details are missing. You want to kill these creatures when we do not know for sure what happened? Remember, the dragons do not need us, we need them,’ he stated.

  ‘We need no one,’ Jorgi shouted. ‘My nephew, a thirteen-year-old boy, was one of those that perished, Döuw. Do you expect me to sit here and let his death go unavenged? You say a lot of the details are missing, there’s twenty-one bodies being readied to be cast to the sea. How many more details do you need?’

  A bald man whose green robes were decorated with silver anvils was the next to speak His voice was thin and frail.

  ‘And who is going to slay these dragons, Jorgi, you?’ Shrell Kain of the Iron Anvils asked.

  ‘You’d better believe it; you’d better believe it.’ Jorgi beat the table with his fist.

  ‘Enough,’ the king demanded. ‘And what of you, Ermithdin, what have you to say about this unfortunate event?’

  ‘Yes, Ulroch, what have you to say? As it was you who sent them to the surface,’ Jorgi hissed. ‘You may as well be sitting there with their blood on your hands.’

  The statement caused uproar, with members of the Fire Forge and Pebblecrushers trading insults and accusations that resulted in some people being ejected from the hall. When the raucous arguing died down, all eyes were fixed on Ermithdin.

  He sat silently with his arms on the table, the parchment in his hands. His eyes flitted between the words on the page and the embroidered flames on the sleeves of his black-and-red robes. He imagined the flames rolling down the confines of Shaft Five.

  Flames…twenty-one dead…Bulros…dragon-fire.

  His eyes were drawn to the words no matter where else in the document he tried to look.

  Laying the parchment down, he got to his feet.

  ‘Firstly, let me say how sorry I am that this attack took place. I know my sympathies will not ease the suffering that the families of the dead are experiencing, but I offer them none the less.’

  He looked at Jorgi Sizebith before continuing.

  ‘Yes, it was I who gave the order that the scavenger crew be deployed to the surface to harvest the dead dragon. I also told them that this is the breeding season, and that any runs should be carried out on a clear day with three spotters instead of the normal one. Does everyone agree with this?’

  He looked at each of the other guild leaders, who all nodded gravely.

  ‘You say we should take a stand,’ he continued, still addressing the leader of the stonemasons. ‘What is it exactly that you think we should do? Drive them away? Kill them? We are here because of the dragons. Over one thousand years ago, our forefathers excavated these cities, underneath where these creatures nest. They even named our capital city after these great winged beasts. Why did they risk living in such close proximity to these things? Because they knew then what we know now; this was, and still is, the safest place in the Northern Realms to live.

  ‘The realm of Umberöc has never once been sacked or plundered by foreign invaders. We have never fallen foul of the malevolence of the gods, even though we defy them. Why do you think that foreign armies refuse to raid our unguarded cities for their enchanted items and magical weaponry? Out of respect? Why is it that the gods do not take our women or cast our cities beneath the waves, even though we oppose their will by harbouring men like me, men without a shadow?’ Ermithdin sighed and slumped back down in his chair, rubbing his forehead with a stressed and resigned look upon his face.

  ‘Well that’s it then, we’re all agreed, we do nothing. Excuse me while I cover myself in gravy and climb to the surface,’ Jorgi said as he went to stand up.

  ‘Sit down.’

  Ermithdin slammed his hand on the table.

  The room fell silent as everyone looked on in shock, and the colour drained from Jorgi’s face.

  Ermithdin’s eyes were bright red, flames dancing where his irises should have been. Red lines of liquid fire glowed up and down his hands and neck like lava running from the sides of a volcano. Smoke was starting to emanate from his robes at the shoulders and chest, causing his aides and advisers to back off quickly.

  Ermithdin closed his eyes, breathed deeply and let his mind drift to a more peaceful place and a happier time.

  The smoke dispersed and his veins returned to their normal colouration.

  The rest of the room, save for King Gilrin and the other members of the Cult of the Fire Forge stared at him, aghast.

  ‘If your motive for killing the dragons is personal, because of your nephew, then I perfectly understand,’ Ermithdin said in his usual calm tone. ‘But to kill, or even drive away the creatures which, unbeknownst to them, provide us with the very safety we have enjoyed for over one thousand years would be nothing short of suicidal, would it not?’

  He looked at the guild leaders, hoping they would see the folly of Jorgi’s suggestion.

  ‘These dragons supply us with the raw materials we need to craft the weapons and armour that drive our economy,’ Ermithdin continued. He looked at the tall gaunt leader of the Cult of the Elemental Wind. ‘Karneger, how important is the dragon’s blood that your sorcerers and alchemists use in the potions and scrolls that you make?’

  ‘Vital,’ the man in the turquoise-and-black robes replied, nodding.

  ‘Shrell,’ Ermithdin turned his attention to the old man wearing the green robes. ‘The teeth, claws and bones from these creatures make for high-quality weaponry, am I right?’

  ‘Some of the highest quality weapons in the Northern Realms have been made by my blacksmiths using these items. We made a bow out of the sternum of one of these creatures that sold for over thirty thousand gold; it was so good we named it after this city,’ the old man confirmed.

  ‘What about the scales, Manshu?’ Ermithdin addressed the olive-skinned man in the dark-grey robes sitting beside him. ‘Do your armourers have any use for those scales that the scavenger team spends most of their time hunting the rocks for?’

  ‘It is hard to make dragon-plate armour without dragon scales,’ Manshu-Döuw admitted.

  Ermithdin looked around the table at the other leaders, interlocked his fingers and sighed.


  ‘No one said living here was going to be easy, or safe,’ he started, talking to himself as much as anyone. ‘These creatures are our unwitting guards; they are not our pets. Put whatever safety procedures you want in place, double the number of spotters on patrols, give every man a crash course in dragon detection if you want; the fact is simple and every member of the scavenger team knows it: as soon as you leave these tunnels, you enter into the dragons’ world. Kill them or drive them away at your peril.’

  Ermithdin folded his arms. He had explained himself in the simplest terms that he could; if the council decided to go ahead and drive off the dragons then they would have to deal with the consequences.

  ‘So these brave souls died in vain, that’s what we’re saying?’ Jorgi looked at King Gilrin for support.

  The king shrugged his shoulders and looked at the ground.

  ‘They did not die in vain, they died doing their job, which was to bring back materials scavenged from outside the city,’ said Manshu-Döuw.

  Jorgi sat back in his chair, a despondent look on his face.

  A silence descended. Ermithdin knew something was up, Jorgi Sizebith was one of the most tenacious men he had met; he had never known him to back down on anything.

  ‘I wonder what the people will say when they hear their king has refused to protect them from these monsters,’ Jorgi said, looking at the parchment with a glint of malice in his eye.

  The room once again burst into uproar as men from each camp began to shout and hurl abuse at the Cult of the Pebblecrushers.

  Ermithdin shook his head slowly, he knew Jorgi could be stubborn and disagreeable but did not think he was capable of emotional blackmail. Looking over at the king, Ermithdin could see that he was agitated and huddled with his advisers.

  ‘I am sure we can come to some sort of compromise,’ King Gilrin stuttered while shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

  ‘What compromise? There’ll be riots in this city if the people find out just how reluctant you are to take action,’ Jorgi shouted down the table.

  ‘What would you have me do?’ the king pleaded. ‘You know we need the dragons.’

  ‘A cull then, starting with Bulros,’ Jorgi replied. ‘You all want raw material for your weapons and armour, a cull will give you all the material you need.’

  The other leaders at the table were nodding.

  ‘You are not seriously thinking this is a good idea?’ Ermithdin argued. ‘They are dragons: not rabbits. You cannot just kill a few. These things are hundreds of years old, they are intelligent, and worst of all they are vengeful. You declare war on them and you are going to have more than a dead scavenger team on your hands, I can promise you that.’

  ‘Jorgi is right; the people need to know who is in control. We can just kill a few…’ the king began.

  ‘Kill “a few”? Do you honestly believe the dragons are just going to accept the fact that you have decided to thin the herd?’ Ermithdin turned his attention to Jorgi. ‘How do you expect to bring one of these things down? Umberöc does not possess an army.’

  ‘No, but we have your Deathstrike crossbow,’ Jorgi said.

  The miners of Dragonov and the other cities of Umberöc had excavated much of the islands on which they lived. When all of the ore had gone and the silver veins had been exhausted, there was only one place left for them to dig: beneath the sea.

  Delving into the bedrock under the ocean floor, they found mineral-rich deposits waiting to be mined. It was while digging into one of these deposits that they stumbled across the thin purple lines of metal that ran through the rocks found in the deepest trenches of the mines.

  No forge in Dragonov was hot enough to be able to smelt this metal. But when a shadowless farm boy, who was new on the island, stepped forward and said that he could get the metal to a high-enough temperature that it would flow from the rocks, eyebrows were raised.

  This purple metal was found to have mystical properties when it was superheated and then cooled with seawater. It attracted and repelled metallic objects with such force that they called it magnentium. Mixing it with other metals, the smiths of Dragonov sold their products throughout the realms for vast sums, fashioning locks, latches, manacles and other restraints.

  It was Ermithdin who first thought of using the strange metal in weapons and armour, with mixed results. Spear tips and arrowheads pushed metal armour apart while shields actively attracted swords, leaving foes bewildered. The most impressive weapons he had crafted with the metal were the Deathstrike series of crossbows, a class of missile weaponry surpassing anything else in the Northern Kingdoms.

  Capable of delivering bolts over a large distance with unerring accuracy, these experimental weapons were the epitome of arms manufacturing in Umberöc. Making a fresh weapon each time because of the amount of magnentium used in the construction, Ermithdin changed different aspects of the limb, string and riser, tinkering with the dimensions to get maximum effectiveness, before smelting it down and trying to perfect it.

  ‘I do not have the weapon any more, I smelted it down, used the last of the metal for a sword, if you must know,’ Ermithdin protested.

  ‘Then we shall get you more,’ the king replied, before turning to one of his advisers. ‘Take the last of the ingots to Ermithdin’s workshop, right away.’

  ‘Building these things takes time, it will also use up our entire supply of magnentium,’ Ermithdin said, trying to give them a reason to reconsider.

  ‘You have a month,’ King Gilrin said.

  ‘This is a bad idea,’ Ermithdin muttered.

  ‘Your disapproval of our decision has been duly noted,’ the King inspected the oversized gold rings on his fingers. ‘But the decision is final. You will produce a weapon capable of bringing down one of these beasts. I will be sending the royal blacksmith to accompany you to ensure the weapon is made in a timely fashion.’

  ‘Who will fire this weapon?’ Ermithdin asked, his head bowed.

  ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘This will not be some rudimentary hand-held dart thrower. It will be five-foot long with a three-foot-wide counterweighted compound recurve limb with the range of a longbow and the force of a ballista. Its widened breach means it will be firing larger, heavier quarrels than a normal crossbow, encrusted with Runes of Impact that will be able to smash through stone walls and kill whoever is on the other side… so if you are going to have a midget like him firing it, then I need to design it differently,’ Ermithdin said, indicating Jorgi.

  Everyone in the room except for Jorgi and the stonemasons broke into laughter.

  The king consulted with his advisers, as he did about most things, before giving his answer.

  ‘We will hold trials to find the finest marksman in Umberöc to fire this weapon. Suitable challengers will be at least six foot tall and able to hit a target at a distance of fifty yards. The payment will be set at one-hundred gold coins for each of these beasts that he, or she, kills.’

  There were nods of approval and excited chattering about the bounty placed on the dragons.

  ‘I bring this meeting to an end, unless anyone has anything further they wish to add,’ the king said, looking around the table.

  Ermithdin felt there was no point in saying anything, the decision had been made and arguing further would make it seem like he was putting the dragons above his own people. Of course, he had a vested interest in the dragons staying, even thriving, in Umberöc. The dragons kept away the gods, the gods knew he was in Umberöc; without the dragons, the gods would come to Umberöc.

  To him, the equation was as simple as it was serious. No dragons equalled death.

  Ermithdin filed out into the hallway with the others and stood talking to the members of his guild, discussing what had just taken place and the potential repercussions. Afterwards he and Protius began to make their way back through the Fulcrum to his worksh
op, high in the caves beside Shaft Four.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Protius asked.

  ‘What can I do? I have to give them what they want.’

  ‘Really?’ Protius asked, sounding surprised.

  ‘I am going to make the most powerful weapon I can,’ Ermithdin said.

  He and his apprentice walked up the stone stairwell that led out of the centre of the city, not speaking again until they reached his workshop. Ermithdin unlocked the door and stepped inside. He went straight over to his writing desk, took out a quill and a scrap of parchment, and jotted down a list in his untidy handwriting. He folded it, turned and handed the paper to Protius.

  ‘Here is a list of the materials I need. Take this note to the king and tell him that without them it will not be possible to craft a crossbow with enough range and power to bring down a seagull, let alone a dragon,’ he commanded, as he ushered the young man towards the door.

  ‘When do we start?’ Protius asked, as he was pushed out into the tunnel.

  ‘First thing tomorrow. Come here and we can go to the forge on Level Two. Do not be late, and do not forget the materials,’ he shouted after Protius.

  Ermithdin stood with his back against the door and let out a deep sigh.

  He looked over at his red-leather-covered writing desk and focused on the quill and parchment that sat on top of it. It was time to write a letter to an old friend.

  At first it was hard to be certain if the rapping on the door was a fragment of Ermithdin’s dream, but the yelling that accompanied it soon put to rest any doubts he may have had.

  Ermithdin got dressed before opening the door.

  Protius stood with two members of the guild; all three of them were carrying sacks. With them was a large, curly-haired, burly man wearing a leather apron covered in scars and scorch marks.

  ‘The king said he was sending one of the best blacksmiths in Umberöc to spy on me; I guess he couldn’t find one,’ Ermithdin quipped.