by David Rice
“Please, take them,” Armitage insisted. “And let us depart with the prisoners, as agreed.”
“Thane Glandrew. The scroll.”
“Oh! Of course.” Glandrew hustled forward and pressed an ornate scroll case into the Underwriter’s sweaty palms.
“What is this?”
“Our terms,” Beru growled. “Deliver them to your leadership at once. Or would you rather I change my mind?” He raised his hammer over his head and grinned.
“Jarl Beru,” Glandrew leaned towards his friend to whisper an ancient phrase. “Our word
often binds us heavily.”
Beru looked up at the silhouette of his hammer against the sky, and his eyes cooled. With a sudden motion that made the gnomes cower, he thrust his hammer towards the City of Halnn.
“Go, at once,” he boomed. “Bring any hurt to my kin again, and you will know the full measure of our justice.”
“Release the prisoners,” Glandrew ordered.
With the gate unchained, the captive gnomes burst from the stockade, wide-eyed and stumbling. As Beru and Glandrew watched the gnomes’ retreat, it was difficult to say who ran the fastest back to the shelter of Halnn’s city walls, the rescued or their rescuers.
***
Olaf borrowed the nicest clothes he could manage for his tour of the Artificer’s District. They were heavy, they were confining, and they itched. Olaf had no idea how anyone could accomplish actual work in such ridiculous garb. He soldiered on, nonetheless. It was a favor for Uncle Derby. Hopefully, a favor that paid well.
On the way to the top level, several side corridors caught Olaf’s interest and cried out to be explored. During his businesslike yet casual stroll along the third hallway, pretending to admire the indecipherable and repetitive designs of the carpet, he detected wisps of a hushed conversation that could not be ignored. Olaf befriended some shadows near the unlatched door, and concentrated upon each word that dropped into his lap.
“They took them?”
“With hardly a question.”
“Yet nothing showed up?”
“Thankfully.”
“Disappointing.”
“Ahem. Nothing has arrived yet but we are observing from a discreet distance. Perhaps soon. Calculations always have variables and windows of probabilities.”
“The calculations were completed properly?”
“They are creatures of chaos. By definition, they are difficult to predict.”
“You realize that this was a significant test.”
“Of course.”
“A very expensive test.”
“Our calculations were sound given the data made available.”
“We need every sparkgem we can acquire.”
“Perhaps we should have used better quality sparkgems?”
“You must be joking. The point is: we can’t afford to waste any more on failed experiments.”
“Then, perhaps, it would be best to gather more data before proceeding. Chaos obviously requires more data.”
“There is no time. The Grand Master Council wanted this project ready yesterday. The remainder of your efforts will be focused on our trap, here. Our next attempt might not be a test.”
“We are making excellent progress collecting from surrounding villages.”
“That was a clever idea of yours, Spindlegraft. And your acquisition of the elven crystals was a masterstroke of ingenuity.”
“Ahem. You are too kind. Since the unfortunate attack upon the town of Rockdug, the villagers of other towns have been frantic to get rid of their sparkgems lest they invite a drake to visit once more.”
“And you are happy to buy their gems for a—reasonable price, are you not?”
“Anything for Halnn, Trademaster.”
“I have to admit, that huge blue stone we acquired from the Rajala was a master stroke of trade. No sparkgem comes close to rivaling its potential.”
“I only wish the trade could have continued before we lost the canal. Cursed dwarven meddling. Who knows what else we could have—acquired.”
“Mmm. Hmm. If this project is successful, no one will resist our terms. And it’s not like you should complain. You have been compensated well enough to purchase another title if that’s what motivates you, Spindlegraft. You have done much to contribute to the safety of our city. The Grand Masters would certainly approve your application.”
“I am but a cog in the wheels, Trademaster. Many have contributed the necessary tools. Our success now relies upon the artisans and engineers who must fulfill their promises.” “Wait! Clumsy fool! Is that door not shut?”
Olaf swallowed his heart. Sparkgems? Given away? To whom? As a test of what exactly? A big blue gem? Perhaps this was why Digby had sent him here to spy? Oh. Olaf grasped his medallion reflexively. He remembered what the Artificers did to spies.
Experiments.
Olaf embraced the shadows and scampered away as if drakes were chasing him.
XV
With Alvilas a continual presence, Eko could find little time alone since his discovery of the disguised scrolls. And Dria had agreed so pleasantly to create a wash that would reveal the hidden writing that Eko was beginning to suspect she had given away his secret. She had not yet delivered the requested catalyst. Perhaps she was told to delay while Alvilas snooped for clues?
Eko knew he was just letting his anxious curiosity bring out the worst of his worries. Dria had many responsibilities and the ingredients required for the wash were harder to obtain in the winter. There was no duplicity in her smile. She would deliver. And Eko did know one way to have some freedom from his mentor’s prying eyes. He would pester him with questions and annoy him with comments that teased heresy. “Have you seen the moons, Alvilas?”
The elderly sage lowered the scroll he was studying and squinted at his understudy.
Alvilas gestured at the confines of Longwood’s sacred archival vaults, burrowed and shaped from the spaces between the roots of their largest redwood trees. “I cannot see them from here.”
“Night’s almost upon us. You can see them soon. When all four are in the sky together, the largest are closer to one another than ever before. The smaller moons have started to appear more often and seem bigger to me. Their crossings of the sky are faster than I remember.”
Alvilas sighed and returned to his examination of ancient passages. “Why can you never focus on the task at hand, Eko?”
“I wonder if the behavior of our moons is connected to the appearance of the drakes.”
“Focus on your research,” Alvilas grumbled.
“I am, Mentor.” Eko displayed a long scroll full of his scribbled notes. “Every fragment concerning the earliest times and the misjudgements of the One.”
Alvilas lowered his scroll again. “Do not be sacrilegious. Not here. Not now! The One makes no misjudgements. The One calls upon us to correct our misjudgements.”
“Like the half-elf girl?” Eko quipped.
“You know how I feel about that,” Alvilas snapped.
“And here we are,” he mumbled.
Alvilas paused for many heartbeats. When he finally spoke, it was with a voice quivering against calm. “Do not mock, Eko. Our people require your talents. For now, simply record what other masters have said regarding the beginning times and the awakening of the drakes.”
“Yes, Master Alvilas.”
“And do not presume to judge too quickly. It will interfere with your ability to see clearly.”
Eko rolled his eyes. How can one think and restrain thought? Thinking freely was his special talent.
A shout from above snared their attention.
“I can’t hear as well as I should,” Alvilas complained. “Go and see what they want.”
Eko gratefully accepted the opportunity to escape the stifling atmosphere of the archives.
Alvilas watched with distain as his young protégé scrambled from sight, leaving scrolls, quills, and ink scattered carelessly across the floor.
“The Council of Elders is assembling,” Cinn announced. “Come quickly.”
“I’ll fetch my mentor.”
Cinn placed a hand on Eko’s arm. “Galen has asked that Alvilas not be disturbed.”
“What?” Eko’s head pounded with pride. “The Elders want me? Why?”
Cinn grimaced at the young sage. “Siandros has returned. He has brought the Fahde.”
The legendary weapon that tamed the drakes.
“Why wouldn’t Alvilas be needed for that?” he yelled as Cinn jogged away.
“The meeting is also concerned with the half-elf he took it from,” Cinn shouted back.
Half-elf? The girl who had been fathered here? Eko’s mind stumbled in unison with his feet as he struggled to follow Cinn towards the Heartwood.
***
Olaf had debts. Grumm had duties. Kirsten had both.
She squirmed with frustration. Plax was dying because Kirsten had failed to protect him. She had possessed the Fahde and it had been taken from her effortlessly. She was every bit the failure the elves expected her to be.
Kirsten dropped to her knees, alone in the snow, and grasped her leaf pendant so hard its edges ground against the bones of her hand. What mattered now? So many sacrifices had been made, and Kirsten had been powerless to prevent any of them. Maybe the elf was right, after all, and the sword was meant to be wielded by a true warrior. Someone with skill and strength. Definitely not her. She rolled onto her back and stared up at a grey and chilling sky. This time she wanted to weep but even tears deserted her.
Kirsten closed her eyes and let her mind drift. Some numbness is what she needed now. A narrowing of choices. A retreat from the world.
She found herself wandering along a tunnel that was grey with crusted snow and dimly lit by patches of clear ice. All around her, indecipherable images flashed past, filling the tunnel with brief and dizzying kaleidoscopic brilliance. Whispers began to encroach upon her silence, but they became so numerous, so overlapping and urgent, that only her racing heart seemed to understand their intent.
Onward, Kirsten travelled until she emerged into a cavern crowded with countless pillars of ice. Each pillar seemed enraptured with surges of colours like ever changing gardens of spiralling light. Above, these pillars held aloft an icy dome whose curving, cracked surface splintered the light of the stars into javelins of white, red, and quivering blue that pierced the endless depths of the chamber.
Despite the hypnotic pull of this vision, Kirsten felt panic rising as she floated past the pillars. The light was so dazzling, it stabbed at her eyes until she squeezed them shut. She became aware of dimly shadowed forms within the roots of each pillar. Stunted and trapped, their voices still buzzed like honey bees. She stopped in front of a pillar. The shadowy form before her was a woman, wreathed with long strands of auburn hair. The buzzing resolved into a single voice about to speak. Its eyes flashed open like molten coals of green.
Kirsten screamed, and surfaced from the snow. She jumped to her feet and stood wobbling and shivering while a dusting of snowflakes descended all around. The stars stabbed through gaps between clouds that were edged with the silver sheen of four passing moons. All four moons. The sun had just set.
Warmth flooded from her pendant, and the remnants of a thought chased her towards crisp consciousness. It was Helba’s voice in a faint and fading whisper of memory. Humility is stronger than pride—
Kirsten shook her head. What was that place? Was it another test? A warning? Her stomach growled. Apparently, it didn’t care. She turned to gather her pack. There was no point
in running now. Her dreams would always find her.
Kirsten scowled. Balinor would surely chastise her for not staying warm and dry before all else. She needed a fire and some warm food. Then, she’d dare the early dark to fulfill a promise to her father, for good or ill. It wasn’t fair that an elf had stolen the Fahde. He couldn’t wield it, could he? It was meant for her, even if they didn’t like it. Even if she didn’t like it.
She would find the Elders of Longwood, share her story, and get her bane-cursed sword back.
The rest would be up to them.
***
Despite Siandros barging into the midst of the Heartwood, slamming a sword into the ground, and demanding that the elders be summoned at once, the council had taken some time to assemble.
Galen observed the sword from a distance. He noted how it gathered light to itself and gleamed pure white even in the mottled shadows of the towering trees. The gem centred in its hilt reminded him of the Ameliss. Soft yet fathomless.
Galen turned his attention towards Siandros. How he strutted in circles impatiently, shouted to those near by, and pointed at the sword with pride. A fine cloth was gathered in a heap where the sword punctured the earth. Galen inspected the scene more carefully. Siandros’s own scabbard was empty and he possessed no scabbard for his new acquisition. Why had he used a cloth to wrap the sword? What prompted him to leave his own sword behind? Siandros’s hair was matted with blood near his crown, and he was favoring both of his hands. He was trying to hide blood and burns. Apparently, the Third Warden had met with a struggle to claim this blade.
Orweh, Dorak, and Woodmother Vendete appeared and greeted Galen pleasantly. Galen followed as they approached Siandros. The Third Warden bowed impatiently and continued to pace. The Elders placed their mats carefully in a large circle surrounding the sword and sat down gracefully. Galen noted that Vendete kept tossing mysterious smiles at Siandros who seemed agitated by her attention.
Cinn and Ballok joined the circle from opposite directions, and they both exchanged quiet words as they admired the sword. They were followed by Eko who stood outside the circle until Dorak patted the space beside him.
“Will Alvilas be joining us?” Dorak asked cheerfully.
Eko looked towards Cinn. “Perhaps he will be summoned later?”
Galen raised his voice to gather the attention of the council. “You have called the Circle of Elders, Third Warden, and we have answered. State your need.”
Siandros thrust aside his impatience to stand tall and point at the sword in their midst. “Behold,” he gloated. “The Fahde. It is real. It is here. I have brought it home to us. The sword that tamed the drakes.”
Whispers cycloned around the circle.
“Doesn’t look like much,” Ballok grumped. “Whoever you took it from, you should go back and get the scabbard.”
Siandros reddened. He turned to face Ballok.
Dorak spoke quickly. “Now that we are in a circle, you should join us, Third Warden.” He patted the ground calmly and smiled. “Sit. Rest.”
Siandros kept his gaze fixed upon Ballok while he placed his mat beside Cinn’s and lowered himself slowly.
“The Fahde has immense power,” Siandros stated. “It was of no use in the hands of an outsider, so I liberated it easily.”
“Did you injure this outsider?” Dorak asked.
“Hardly,” Siandros replied. “Taking the sword took little effort.”
Ballok chuckled and pointed at the head wound. “But someone injured you.”
The Third Warden rubbed his head. “I didn’t expect any resistance from her companions.”
“Her?” Galen prompted. “Dorak, your owl spoke true.”
“Of course,” the Forestward responded.
“You spied upon me?” Siandros sneered. “You have knowledge of this, and now question me like a child?”
Galen leaned forward. “Was it the half-elf girl? Starwatcher’s daughter? Did you take the blade from the half-elf child?”
Ballok laughed again. “The abomination returns? With the blade that’s been hidden for millenia? That’s why Alvilas isn’t here, isn’t it? You’re afraid the shock would kill him.”
Siandros ignored Ballok’s tone. “Yes, I took it. We
know the abomination can’t be trusted. She was in the company of a lifebane, and I left that sorry wretch pinned to a tree. Did your owl see that, Dorak?”
Dorak huffed to himself. “A lifebane companion? Unlikely.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Siandros continued to storm. “The abomination failed and the judgement we have waited to pass can now be upon her. The blade is ours. The Fahde is here now just when we need it most.”
The elders erupted in a buzz of conflicting whispers.
Ballok stood and approached the sword. “Our Third Warden deserves gratitude not suspicion. He’s brought us a great weapon and with it we no longer need to fear the drakes. We can crush Lornen’s army while it is clustered in one spot and then be ready to face the lifebane if they cause more trouble in the north.”
