Dawncaller

by David Rice

  “That was done,well, Feldspar!” Volsun announced.

  Arundy looked on in wonder. “What is meant by this, Jarl?” he asked. At the center of the table, the heartstone glowed fiery red.

  Volsun gasped. “It’s a sign,” he proclaimed, his voice dripping awe. “A very favorable sign.”

  Duwart wiped some gravy from his beard and pointed at the shield. “What do we do with it now?”

  Dugall, Thane of the Deepdelve Clan, stood up, raised his mug and shouted. “I say we kill us some drakes!”

  The dwarves roared their approval.

  ***

  Balinor’s heart fell. Thunderwall’s main gate was clamped shut and there was no answer to his insistent taps upon its granite face. Vargas stood looking west, his ears up and his tail fuzzed out. Balinor knew the troops would see him the moment they climbed the last of the steps leading to the sealed marketplace buildings. They had only one slim chance and he knew it would not be enough for safety. Balinor’s posture hardened as he grasped his bow, swung himself down from his horse and hurried them all into the shadows of the outlying market stalls.

  “Arundy’s safe, now,” he whispered to himself, “Alain. All the rest. Now all I need, Helba, is one perfect shot. I sure hope you are listening.”

  A deeply rooted concussion shook the ground and nesting birds exploded into flight, fleeing the mountain face in droves. Below, he could hear the distant curses and surprised shouts of the soldiers as they tried to control their spooked mounts.

  He heard the Major’s voice pierce the air.

  “Dwarf trickery. Dismount and scout ahead. We’ll fnd where they are hiding or demand their release.”

  Balinor fought to calm his breathing and steady his heart. He’d have to stay absolutely quiet and still while the scouts passed, trusting that the sun would hinder their vision, and then get close enough to make his one shot count. He looked down at Vargas and patted his head. “When I tell you to run, you’d better run, boy,” he whispered.

  The first patrol kept moving past, their sun dazzled eyes unable to penetrate the deep shadows. So far so good, Balinor assured himself. He slipped from shadow to shadow, closing the distance towards the Major’s voice. Once more he stopped to calm his nerves. It was just like hunting, he told himself. Just one clean shot, even if the bastard didn’t deserve it.

  The major’s voice rang out once more. “Did they all go inside?” he yelled.

  Balinor smiled. He raised his bow as he circled around the thinner shadow of the building’s side, drew back and began to release his breath.

  A shadow flashed across the ground. Shaped like a bat but so much bigger. Then an unnatural cry that made even the granite flinch.

  Horses whinnied, neighed, and bolted, their terrified hooves scattering drumroll echoes across the hillsides. Troops collapsed, screamed, stood speechless, or ran. Balinor found himself in a crouch, hugging the shadowed wall, Vargas curled at his feet. The major stood frozen, looking straight up at a circling ebony horror.

  Balinor’s mind unexpectedly slowed down, as if the inevitable was already past. So that was a drake was his only coherent thought.

  With a cry, the major turned to grab at the reins of a passing horse and, in a miracle of athleticism, swung into the saddle and began his frantic charge down and away.

  No, you don’t. Balinor stepped to the edge of the shadow, his hands steady, his bow taut, his breathing perfect. His mind filled with one mantra. Just the boy, not the horse, Helba. Just the boy who did that to you. The arrow was away. He heard a tiny human scream, and then nothing. Released, Balinor collapsed against the building, melting into the shadows once more, curling small around his dog who did not move.

  The drake’s wings stopped flapping, and the wet sound of rending bone could be heard. Then there was another shriek that numbed his senses, and a hurricane of wings returned. Purple rolling flame and belching black smoke accompanied sudden blasts of splitting rock. Fragments of sound and flashes of heat overwhelmed Balinor’s mind until the smoke and carnage dropped him into nothingness.

  ***

  The meal was concluding amiably. Jarl Volsun had just read the message from Graniteside and he had just heard Arundy’s revelation about his ward, Leonara.

  “It seems that there are two heirs to the throne your King doesn’t know about,” Volsun smiled tightly. “An older boy is hidden in dwarven ruins under your capital city. And then there’s you, miss.”

  Arundy shook his head. “What will you do?” he asked.

  Volsun nodded. “Glad you told me your plans for your King. We don’t let a Jarl stay on forever, you know. Thanes get selected to be Jarl, you know. Take turns. One person has power too long and they get selfish, don’t they?”

  Arundy nodded. “Lornen’s been a monster. The nobility seeks a better way for our realm. So that we avoid such abuses.”

  “Ah, Lornen’s got it coming. Gnomes conspired with the lifebane to destroy us all and then partnered with you because they thought you were weak.”

  “Many were.”

  Volsun took another swig of ale. “Nah. Just some. Hope for you after all, maybe. Worth helping, anyway.”

  Arundy swallowed. It all came down to how a dwarven Jarl answered the next question. “How will you help?”

  “We’ll keep you safe till Lornen is removed. Thunderwall is even willing to help that happen and mebbe together we stop the drakes from ruining everyone’s plans?”

  “How?” Arundy asked. “Why?”

  Volsun winked. All we ask in return is our claim upon those ruins at the edge of your coastal city, and that other place, what did you call it?”

  “The Crossroads,” Arundy clarified.

  “Best way to prosper is to live and trade fairly alongside one another.”

  Arundy sighed. If the world was to survive, it would be far different. And hopefully better. “I will push for such a resolution, Jarl Volsun,” the Duke asserted.

  Leonara looked up at Arundy. “I don’t have to be a queen?”

  “You don’t want to be?”

  Leonara blushed. “I’m too young.”

  “Ahh,” Volsun laughed. “Some folks never grow into it.”

  Leonara smiled shyly.

  “I think you’ll be ready. But there may be other brothers and sisters just like you. Some might even be older.” Arundy added.

  “It all comes down to this,” Volsun stated. “Take care of others first and’ they’ll take care o’ you. That’s the dwarven way.”

  Leonara wrinkled her brow as the Jarl’s words sunk in. She thought of her mother. And her father. Her real father, not Lornen. That’s what they had done, hadn’t they? She brushed away some budding tears. “Thank you, Jarl.” she eventually replied.

  Volsun laughed again and slapped Arundy on the shoulder. “Don’t rush through good advice,” he said. “Of course, I’m three hundred cycles old so mebbe that’s easier for me.” Arundy nodded. For only the second time in his life, his heart was too full to find words.

  At that moment, a dwarf soldier burst into the throne room and ended the meal instantly.

  “Drake!” he cried.

  ***

  Balinor woke with a start. Vargas wimpered and started to lick his hands and face. His dog’s fur had been singed and curled in places by the heat, and his own body was caked with soot. The stone beneath them both was uncomfortably hot. He could still hear the low crackle of flames being fed by mountain gusts but nothing else. No birds. No horses. No flapping of wings or monstrous cries. Just silence, and the smell of burned blood.

  He emerged slowly, stiffly, from behind the shrunken, half-melted building. Nothing but ruined stone structures coroneted with tendrils of purple flame, and dark flowering bursts of black, centred with the crusted, crushed, and half-consumed, met his eyes. Tears dried before they could emerge, and mucus took an effort to spit.

  Balinor stumbled forward, Vargas at his side, until he arrived at what he thought might be the Major.
Only the top half of a blackened body remained. On one shoulder was a melted golden epaulet. Jutting from crushed ribs was a single arrow shaft, black and broken now. It would have been enough to hurt him but probably not kill. Staring at the skull, he noticed a deep daggar shaped penetration to the forehead. The major hadn’t escaped. Balinor had made sure of it. But it had been the drake that had killed the boy.

  He sunk to his knees beside the ruined remains. He thought he would feel elation, or pride, or whatever revenge could bring. No. It was just like when his mother was killed and his drunken father finally died. He just felt empty.

  ***

  Dindur stood near the Highgate, a white knuckled grasp of a crutch holding him upright. He stared hard at Grumm, Olaf and Pell. Grumm held a Warhammer in one hand and the blue gemmed shield in the other.

  “It should be me, you know,” Dindur grumbled. “I should be the shield bearer. They asked me to bring the shield back and fix it.” His voice burst with pain, “And I did.”

  Jarl Volsun dropped a hand upon Dindur’s good shoulder and squeezed. “Yes, ye did, lad. An’ I’m certain there’s no one else that coulda done that. But ye need to heal an’ we’ve made our decision.”

  “So, we’re giving it away to Longwood?” Dindur grumbled.

  Volsun sighed. “I’ve been over this with the Thanes and, outta respect for your heroism in making this possible, I’ll explain one more time. Just one more time.”

  Dindur lowered his head. “My Jarl, I apologize. I yield to the wishes of the twelve.”

  “Ahh, yer a good kid. Look, the Mysteries fill in some of this an’ what we know from Grumm fills in more. The shield an’ the sword stopped the awakening once before but they were separated to do it, an’ the plan didn’t last forever, did it? This time, we’re goin’ to try the shield an’ sword together. An’ Grumm has proven himself fighting alongside the sword wielder. He knows who she is and where she is. So, that’s that.”

  “Olaf has proven himself, too, my Jarl,” Grumm interjected.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Volsun relented. “An’ that’s why I’m trustin’ him with you. But you know how we’re all feelin’ about gnomes from this time forward.”

  Olaf bowed. “I’ll make some amends, Jarl Volsun. Not all gnomes are like the ones who betrayed you.”

  Volsun grimaced. “Get going before I change meh mind.” He lifted his head towards the high edges of the hall. “No drake sightings?”

  “None, my Jarl. The drake departed northerly last evening,” came the disembodied response.

  “Open the Highgate,” Volsun ordered, and the precise grinding of stone answered immediately.

  A shaft of smoky light thrust into the great hall. Grumm lifted the shield. “For Thunderwall,” he shouted.

  A mass of dwarves behind their Jarl responded in kind, their voices shaking the stone.

  “For Thunderwall!”

  Amid the echoes of their hopes, Grumm led Olaf and Pell through the Highgate, along with their six goats, three for riding and three packed high with supplies. The doors to Thunderwall closed behind them with a deep haunting finality.

  Squinting into the afternoon sun, Olaf could make out some movement among the desolation spread before them. It was a human slowly gathering in a nervous horse, and a dog who was turning their way to wag his tail and bark.

  ***

  Balinor was amazed to hear the Highgate open and to see three figures emerge. He recognized the shield in the hands of the stocky dwarf and stared in awe at the blue flaming gem at its centre.

  “Arundy, Alain, and the rest are safe?” he asked before they were too close.

  “Yes,” Grumm replied. “You’re the one that allowed the rest to find safety?”

  Balinor nodded. “Looks like it.”

  “We’re travelling to the Crossing and onwards to Longwood,” Grumm stated evenly. “I must be reunited with my friend, the sword wielder. If you are willing, we’ve heard from Alain that you are an excellent guide.”

  Balinor shrugged. “I’ll pull my weight. Strange that I’m heading to Longwood myself. A friend’s daughter’s got herself in a mess of trouble, I figure. She takes after her Papa that way.”

  “Hmmph,” Grumm replied.

  Olaf rode up alongside as Balinor was slipping into his saddle. “What’s your friend’s name?”

  “Muren,” Balinor replied cautiously. “Why? He’s not from around here.” Grumm and Olaf xchanged surprised glances.

  “That name sounds familiar,” Grumm responded. “The sword wielder mentioned him to us. Said her Papa was either dead or imprisoned unjustly.”

  “And she wants to rescue him,” Olaf added. “Never stops talking about it.”

  Balinor stopped. He looked at the gnome and then the two dwarves trying to size up their motives. “This sword wielder. Her name Kirsten, by chance?”

  Grumm’s eyes widened.

  Olaf laughed out loud. “Yes,” he blurted. “Did you hear that, Grumm? We’ve got some common goals here.”

  “It seems we do,” Grumm responded slowly.

  “That girl keeps surprising me,” Balinor added.

  They rode on for quite a while in complete silence.

  Finally, Balinor spoke up. “When I left Graniteside, her Papa was still okay.”

  Grumm coughed. “That is welcome news. But the drakes must come first.”

  Balinor slowed his pace and drew up to Grumm. “First we get Kirsten to safety and then we figure out what’s next, okay?”

  Grumm scowled but offered a tolerant nod.

  Balinor returned the nod. “So, we gotta avoid any settlements. If any troops find us, we’re all as good as dead.”

  “Oh, that’s not good,” Olaf responded.

  “Don’t fear, human,” Pell added. “We know how to fight.”

  Balinor absorbed Pell’s coiled demeanor. “Don’t doubt it. We’ll fight if we have to, but we’ll be faster if we don’t have to, right?”

  Everyone accepted Balinor’s logic.

  Balinor smiled. “Right. Then it’s a good thing I know a few short cuts.” The party rode long into the night.

  XLII

  From atop his horse, Arch-Duke Gow, Marshall of King Lornen’s armies, could examine the entirety of Gristmill and he was not impressed. A fortnight earlier, patches of ice still held the ground firm where gravel and planking could not reach. Now, ice dams on the Raelyn were flooding the land. Thick mud made movement within the town’s timber walls a slow process at best. Nothing could move from the paths without bogging. Outlying lumber camps and picket forts could no longer receive the supplies they needed because they could not make it from the docks through the quagmire of the town. Conditions had forced him to temporarily abandon the camps and bring all of the soldiers and workers to the safety of Gristmill until the ground dried enough to continue logging. His army would also need solid ground before moving their cannon and supply trains. He could no longer afford to throw away lives in useless patrols against the elves. At least the elves kept to themselves, he thought, small skirmishes and raids that kept his troops demoralized but also revealed a glaring weakness to Gow. He estimated that the elves might only have a few score defenders. They would surely be swept aside by his garrison of five thousand. Yes. The next thrust into Longwood would have to be with his entire force. It would have to be decisive. And it would have to happen before Lornen arrived to pass judgement on his management of the war.

  The sound of a bugle from the east gate made his heart race. Pivoting his mount expertly, Gow raised his spyglass. There was a single finely dressed rider being escorted through the gate. Who would it be from that direction? His bearing was naggingly familiar to Gow.

  Hubbard? Gow’s stomach flipped. Lornen’s shamed liason to Halnn? What would he be doing here? Now?

  Gow trained his spyglass on the treeline to the east. Glimmers of silver behind teams of horses, and gaudy tapestried wagons were emerging from the forest. A gnome merchant caravan? Had Lornen cut a
deal for supplies without telling him? The supplies would be welcome but not the commotion gnomes always brought with them. And with the town already overflowing with women, children, and laborors of all kinds, he wasn’t sure if they had room for more. Gow trotted down from his hill to prevent Hubbard and his friends from creating unwanted chaos.

  As Gow approached, Hubbard dismounted and bowed deeply. “Your Grace,” he proclaimed in a strained voice, “I ony wish to serve Our King faithfully. Please hear the request from Halnn and do not think poorly of me.” He presented a brass scroll case with a quivering hand.

  Gow examined the diplomat with a measured gaze. The man’s clothes were torn, and his face swollen and bruised. Gow accepted the scroll case but did not open it. “Hubbard. I have instructions from the King regarding your person.”