by David Rice
Bunmor looked at Momma Cabbageroot. “Some good gnomes out there,” he said grudgingly.
The tall dwarf stood and addressed the room. “A gnome I might believe—but not if there was a straight up fight.”
A glare from Momma halted his voice.
“No disrespect intended, ma’am.”
The younger dwarf chimed in. “A girl was fighting alongside you, Grumm? I thought only our women were good in a scrap.”
Bunmor lowered his voice. “Half-elf, you said?”
Grumm stuck out his chest. “That’s what I said. An’ she saved us all when the dragon woke.”
The other four dwarves looked at one another and then staggered about laughing.
“Oh, you’ve pulled our legs good and hard this time, Grumm,” Bunmor guffawed. Then his voice settled into a drier tone. “For real, though. Looks like you got too close to the elves an’ they put their swords an’ spells to yeh.”
“That happened, too,” Grumm said. “An’ that’s why I have the elf here.”
“Elves attacking elves?” the taller dwarf stated. “That makes no sense at all.”
“So, where’s the gnome, and this girl-friend of yours,” the youngest dwarf sniggered. “I’d like to hear their story.”
“Olaf,” Grumm replied, “had some debts to pay. And Kirsten pressed on to Longwood. The elf who attacked us stole her sword and she’s set to get it back.”
“Oh, I remember Olaf,” Bunmor announced. “But it seems like a lot of trouble over a sword. Where’d you find it? And these Drakes? And this Dragon?”
Grumm grabbed Bunmor by the sleeve and pulled him close. He hissed into his ear, “High in the mountains. Ingrae-Salin.”
Bunmor’s eyes flashed wide and he let out a long sigh. “Grumm. It’s just a legend. Ye’d better get some sleep. Straighten yer head.”
“Don’t be fallin’ for these shite stories,” the tallest dwarf grumbled. “Yeh know the Rockbottoms are a well named clan.”
Grumm snarled, took one step past Bunmor and landed a swift uppercut. The tallest dwarf crashed to the seat of his pants, and one of his teeth bounced into the fireplace.
Fenny shrieked and pulled her brother towards their curtained room.
Momma’s voice boomed. “Enough!” Then she turned to Grumm. “Your friend’s name was Olaf?”
Grumm blinked and nodded.
“It’s not a common name,” Momma added. “Did he mention if he was city folk or country folk?”
“Umm. Country,” Grumm answered. “He said he was from the farms near the city.”
Momma shook her head. “I might know the family,” she said.
Grumm had no appropriate answer longer than a surprised grunt.
A wiry voice scratched the air. “It’s—all true. Drakes. Dragon. Sword an’ gem. All of it.”
Everyone turned to face Plax who was struggling to sit up.
Momma hurried to his side. “Lay back or you’ll start bleeding again,” she insisted.
Bunmor looked at his companions and whistled. “Looks like Grumm’s completed his Bildugsroaming. Too bad for the rest of us sorry bastards.”
Momma Cabbagepatch flashed the look.
Bunmor looked away. “Pardon my language, ma’am.”
“Oh, no,” Grumm replied. “Nothing’s finished yet. Too much still to do.”
“What?” Bunmor exclaimed. “I’m happy for ye, Grumm! You’ve got to tell this to Jarl Volsun. To Beru. By the heartstone, to Besra’s father! I know you’ve had yer eye on her.”
Grumm’s blushing was hidden by his beard. “That silliness can wait. I tell you, there’s still bigger troubles to face.”
The tallest dwarf raised a hand for some help standing. Bunmor looked at him and shook his head. “Get yerself up, Brikkit, yeh mouthy piece o’ work.”
Momma passed the dwarf a damp bandage topped with a dab of salve. “Put that in the hole and hold it there till the bleeding stops. You don’t want an infection in your jaw.” “Hmmf,” the dwarf replied as he stood. “I’vfh haddh hwerse,” he mumbled through the bandage then paused to spit out two more teeth.
“Grumm looked at the teeth and chuckled. “Glad I’m not losing meh touch.”
Bunmor slapped Grumm on the back. “Thanes and Jarls are waiting on our reports. We’ll be heading back tomorrow after a good rest.” He turned to Brikkit and pointed.
The tall dwarf responded with a pained expression. “Yefff?”
Bunmor grinned. “Once we turn in, you’ve got first watch.”
Brikkit’s response was lost to his bloody bandage and swelling jaw.
Despite their fatigue, Bunmor and Grumm stayed up until the four moons had come and gone, trading whiskey and stories as if no time had passed.
***
In the twilight of early dawn, Plax woke to the sound of dwarven whispers hovering in the shadows under the mask of Bunmor’s snoring.
“Shh. Ye heard how weak he is. Ye can see it as plain as day. Just hold the bugger’s feet an’ I’ll use the pillow. It’ll be over afore twenty breaths. Then we can gi’ back te sleep wi’ no worry of a spy, an’ no one’s the wiser.”
“Dunno, Brikkit. Bunmor an’ his friend are pretty sharp. They’ll see through it, they will.”
“Ye tellin’ me yer gonna let a lifebane live?”
“Nah—t exactly.”
“Then what’ er ye gonna do?”
There was a long pause. The Cabbageroot children shifted in their blankets. Grumm grumbled and turned in his blankets. All settled into quiet once more alongside Bunmor’s rhymic thunder.
“Awright. I’ll hold the feet. Poor bugger. Make it merciful.”
Plax held his breath until he could feel the dwarves beside him. He could tell by the rapid intake of their breathing that they were about to make their move. Then he whispered the three necessary syllables and a slumbercharm struck both dwarves simultaneously.
The eyes of the dwarves rolled backwards and they slid to the floor heavily. Bunmor’s snore stopped. Grumm looked up for a moment, bleary-eyed, and then settled again.
Plax moved as swiftly as silence allowed. For all of their distrust, Grumm saved him. He felt his strength once more, at least enough to travel, and he knew he couldn’t stay without bring harm upon his friend. Gathering only essentials, Plax cast a silencecharm and exited the cabin.
There was a scent in the air of warmer weather coming. Plax knew that meant rain. He considered his options. He couldn’t travel south. Humans would kill him as quickly as dwarves.
He couldn’t travel north. The kin who cast him out waited there. He couldn’t travel east. Dwarves and drakes both filled his mind with dread. There was one person he knew he could trust. One who showed him some respect and she had gone to Longwood. Plax was a horsewarden child and he had always been told the Longwood elves were peaceful and slow to judge. Perhaps they would understand his deformity and accept him there. He shrugged. Perhaps they would accept him if Kirsten could vouch for his character.
A small chance was better than none at all. With shreds of hope holding his spirit together, Plax began his journey northwest towards Longwood.
***
Grumm cursed when he woke and saw Plax was gone. At the foot of Plax’s bed the two youngest dwarves lay drooling into the plank floor. A pillow lay nearby as if suddenly dropped.
The rest of the cabin woke to the sound of Grumm’s cry and were soon commiserating over what to do.
“No tracks,” Bunmor said. “The bugger up an’ vanished.” He looked at Grumm again. “Ye sure he wasn’t a spy?”
“No,” Grumm responded harshly. “He took his kit an’ some supplies. An’ look at these two sots. I’ve seen this kinda elf charm before. They musta gone at Plax an’ he dropped ‘em in self-defense. Didn’t hurt them none, an’ I swear he coulda.”
Bunmor slowly nodded. “If he gets caught—well, there’s no takin’ chances. We got what we were lookin’ for an’ need to get back to report. You comin�
� with us?”
Grumm looked about and sighed. “Was my plan after all. Yeah. I’ll come with ye. But one word from those two sleeping beauties an’ I’ll knock some more teeth outta them, you can be sure.”
Bunmor chuckled. “They can carry the extra gear. That should shut them up.” “Fair’s fair,” Grumm agreed
After a hearty breakfast courtesy of the Cabbageroots, the dwarven patrol found itself returning to The Crossing along the ice covered Halnn Road.
XXV
In the northern steppes, the incessant winds stacked drifts of snow until the landscape resembled a sea frozen rolling towards shore. The trees that survived in clumps along the frozen river bed provided some shelter from the driving slash of ice crystals. Small twirls of smoke drifted upward from the creek, met the gusting wind, and vanished eastward. Huddled along the bed of the creek, a hundred low leather huts crouched, their flaps occasionally singing or rattling with the gusts. Horses both majestic and sturdy inhabited leather lined pens. Dogs lay curled together in the snow. As sure as the dawn’s glimmering and glowering, they waited patiently for the storm to pass. Then they would move again to follow one of the great herds. If they encountered the lifebane intruding upon their hunting grounds, they would slay them. This was the way of the horsewardens for a third of every cycle.
This storm had kept the camp pinned to one place for a fortnight. A few horsewardens moved silently from place to place, inspecting nearby traps, clearing holes in the ice to check fishing nets, and repairing tiedowns worn thin by the persistence of winter. Beyond the camp, lost in the stark white distance, were the scouts who would warn of any trouble. Most often, they proved their worth by reporting a stray caribou and then the camp would feast.
When Nerrod stepped out of the horse pen, he heard brief snatches of excited cries and his mood lifted. He could already taste the thick tang of the meat and his stomach growled. He hurried to scale the embankment and stuck his head into the full force of the wind to better see the returning hunter.
Emerging from the icy fog, a scout came running. His feet were alive with the spark and they barely grazed the snow. As he closed the distance, Nerrod smiled and waved. It was his youngest brother, Talloh, the fastest runner of their clan. Nerrod’s smile faded when he noted the broken gait of Talloh’s stride, and the panicked look upon his face.
Nerrod stepped over the embankment to stop his brother from falling. The two crashed together and rolled backward, tumbling headlong down the slope.
Nerrod rolled nimbly to his feet and tried to pull his brother up with him. Instead, his brother fell sideways and slumped to the snow again.
“Talloh! What’s gotten into you? What’s wrong?” Then Nerrod saw the arrow jutting from his brother’s back. He leapt forward and wrapped his arms around Talloh. “I’ll get you inside. Mimesa can help.”
“No—time,” Talloh’s voice chugged through gasps that pushed dark froth to his lips.
“The lifebane—”
Nerrod’s eyes widened and he bellowed vainly against the wind, “Help! To Arms! The Lifebane Attack!” He watched in horror as his brother’s body slid heavily from his grip. From the north, a scout’s horn pierced the distance before being cut off mid-note. The huts began to shake with urgent movement and voices shouted both warnings and questions. There was no time to run to his hut for his own bow, not even time to wonder how their pickets had been surprised. He dragged his brother’s body into a horse pen and took Talloh’s weapons and quiver
instead.
As Narrod swung onto the back of his stallion Sakhlyn, other horsewardens were also bursting from cover and heading east. Nerrod gave Sakhlyn a sharp squeeze with both knees and they dashed away. He settled into his balance and readied his bow while his mind started to buzz with questions. How had they been found? What had made the lifebane so bold as to attack?
No time.
As a gaggle, they would break the encirclement while it was still thin, attack it on the move from the cover of the mist, and draw the lifebane away from their encampment. The lifebane would soon find themselves caught between the spears and sparkweaving of the huts, and the ferocity of fifty warriors on horseback. Nerrod swore that these attackers would beg for mercy before a thousand heartbeats had passed.
He formed with five other riders and they struck south, the sound of their thundering hooves masked by hunting charms. At once, a shadowy form appeared to the front and fell instantly, pierced by three arrows. Then another shape appeared, and another, and a dozen more following. Bows hummed and more of the mottled attackers fell. Barbed arrows and hunting spears zipped from the shrouding snowfall and flew past his group on all sides. Ignoring harm, they pressed ahead to break through the lifebane’s encircling line.
The shadows of lifebane warriors darkened until it became an impassible wall. They began howling defiance as Nerrod’s group of riders veered right and rushed along the front of their formation. Nerrod fired arrows into the mass as he flashed past. The squeal of a horse reached him, and then another closer behind. His own brothers were falling, and there was nothing he could do but ride. An arrow zipped across his face, stinging his cheek. Another thumped into his thigh and he jolted against the pain. Another scream, and then he knew he was alone.
There was no point in wasting his final arrows now. Nerrod leaned forward until his face was pressed into Sakhlyn’s thrusting neck. Although not an adept sparkweaver, Nerrod forced calm upon his mind and chanted the songs that might save their lives. Snow flew up around them, masking their flight. Warmth travelled through him, his bleeding slowed, and Sakhlyn surged with renewed energy. On his left, a brighter patch appeared between masses of shadow. There was no thought, just the sudden turn and a final burst of speed. He closed his eyes and held Sakhlyn’s mane in both fists. His stallion leapt over obstacles and then was free of the shadowed horde.
By the One, they had broken the line. Nerrod sat up and felt the wind strike him with pellets of ice. He rubbed his horse’s neck and whispered soft sounds. Gradually he eased the panic from Sakhlyn’s pace but could not sooth it from the white of his eyes. He counted his arrows. Five. He looked at the arrow protruding from his leg. As his heart slowed, the leg began to throb. Again, Nerrod called upon the weave to force away the pain and purge the wound.
His people needed help.
He slowly swung towards the encampment again, staring into the blanket of white, anticipating pursuit, praying for survivors. Finding neither.
His head began to spin. There must’ve been thousands pressing the attack against his encampment. But the lifebane were always divided by distance and clan conflict. Who could summon such a number?
And what could one warrior do? Nerrod’s heart turned to salt. His heart demanded that he attack the lifebane immediately, carve from them a greater price for their audacity, and die honourably as a horse warden. Among his people. Not apart.
He rocked back and forth upon Sakhlyn’s back as his mind cleared and his will for vengeance wavered. What good would another death accomplish. But he was still alive. The Steppes lay open and undefended against an army of this size. And there were many other horse warden encampments that needed to be warned. This, Nerrod swore, was the only path left open to him.
Swinging Sakhlyn away from his family’s encampment was the most difficult choice Nerrod ever made. He renewed his hunting charms and struck east. He maintained the pace until the afternoon when the sun ducked towards the horizon to paint the entire landscape grey. Only then did he notice the gait of his stallion begin to falter.
Nerrod slipped from Sakhlyn’s back. Sakhlyn’s eyes were still white circles surrounding their deep brown, his ears kept twitching back, and his breathe puffed in laboursome bursts of steam. As Nerrod touched his flank, Sakhlyn bobbed his head to nip at his flank. Nerrod glanced under the stallion and his heart plummeted. An arrow had slashed the stallion’s belly and embedded itself in the inside of its leg just above the knee. Dried blood caked the stallion’s coa
t and hoof.
“Both of us, my friend,” Nerrod groaned. Once more he tried to force the weave to coalesce and heal but the spark was unruly and would not obey. “By the One,” Nerrod cried out.
“By all that values life. We need to be answered.”
Only the chilling wind responded. Sakhlyn stumbled and took a knee. Then two. Then collapsed with a deep sigh. Nerrod used the last of his energy trying to get his horse to stand until exhaustion shook his bones. His head began to spin as if chasing a moon.
“An arrow should not do this to you, my friend,” Nerrod whispered. His eyes widened and he stared at the arrows once more. “No,” he hissed. “No. Not poison. Not poison, too.”
Nerrod sat down to lean heavily against his friend. Sakhlyn had quieted. Its breathe came slowly. Its eyelids had closed and were now gathering minute specks of ice. Nerrod slowly stroked the stallion’s mane. “You are my last brother,” he said before drifting away.
