by David Rice
“Your mother was nothing more than a thankless slut,” Ballok swore.
“And your son’s name was Plax,” Kirsten stabbed back.
Ballok’s eyes narrowed and he screamed unintelligible rage towards the sky.
Behind her, the grinding sound of dirt made Kirsten whirl about, raising her guard.
Despite the illusion of a handsome young elf, Kirsten knew it was Plax. He was dragging a large door behind him and his face was drooping with sorrow. Kirsten instantly regretted their conversation growing so loud. Or having it at all.
“What’s wrong?” she ventured.
Plax’s eyes said it all. With a pitiful shake of his head, he pointed at the flaming village. “Women and children are screaming for help. They’re trapped in the buildings. But I had to bring this. For him.”
Kirsten’s heart constricted. “You heard us?”
Plax’s hard eyes stared at the ground.
“Help me strap Ballok to the door and drag him to the tree line. Jiror and the others will take him back to Longwood.”
“Then?” Plax’s voice quivered.
“I’m going back to rescue anyone I can.”
“You can’t,” Plax pleaded.
“I have to,” Kirsten responded quietly. “It’s what Helba would’ve done.”
Ballok snorted. “Mercy for your weaker kin? They deserve to burn.”
“They deserve more help than you,” Kirsten spat as she tried to wrap a leather strap around his hips and the door. “Just be glad I’m feeling sentimental.”
“Useless Half-breed,” Ballok muscled the strap away and tried to grab a fistful of her hair.
Plax raised his fingers and his voice. “Shut up, old man.” He swiftly touched Ballok’s temple. There was a flash and a crack followed by Ballok collapsing inert, eyes half open.
“I’ll get him to the others,” Plax insisted. “If you’re so determined, get in there while there’s still a chance.”
Kirsten hesitated while she helped bind the one-legged warden in place. “Keep your disguise, Plax. And don’t let his bitterness beat you down.”
Distant storms flickered across Plax’s eyes. “I’ll be okay. He hurt me once a long time ago. He can’t touch me like that again.”
Kirsten nodded. She imagined she knew a bit of how that could feel. She raced to recover Ballok’s bow and swords and tossed them near Plax’s feet. “Take those but don’t let him touch them. He’s a bit crazy, you know.”
Plax tried to smile. “Hurry.”
Kirsten drew her blade and its gem bathed the area in bright light once more. “Let’s hope this works as a lockpick,” she stated and then dashed into the heat of Gristmill.
***
Plax made sure that Kirsten was out of sight before he returned his attention to his father. He added three more straps of leather across his body so there would be no way for him to move, and attached a rope so that he could pull him. He knew that Jiror’s wardens would come down from the trees soon and enter the town to finish tbeir butchery. That was the plan all along. Plax. A shadowspark that encompassed both Ballok and himself completed his preparations. He began to pull his father towards the cover of the south western trees where the wardens had lacked the numbers to deploy. He was going to make sure that the elves didn’t find Ballok until
he was finished with him.
***
With a shadowspark wrapped around her, Kirsten easily dodged wandering horses and gaggles of confused and demoralized troops. She was relieved to see that a high ranking officer was directing his troops to free women and children from barracks to the east. Kirsten hurried to the flaming barracks closest to her and neatly sliced open the lock and chain. Popping the door open, a dozen wide-eyed women and children stumbled out followed by belching smoke and a bellows of heat.
Dropping her shadowspark briefly, she pointed south and yelled over the flames, “Go to the river. Hurry. Before the elves come. You can’t stay here.”
Confused but grateful, the survivors staggered away through the rubble strewn narrow streets. Kirsten dashed to open two more barracks before the sound of approaching soldiers made her seek cover.
A bloodied man atop a regal horse, his uniform so weighty with gold trim that Kirsten assumed he must be the duke in charge of the entire mess, was rallying some cavalry who wore uniforms she recognized. “Just like Mac wore,” she whispered to herself.
About two score soldiers managed to line up in twos behind the duke. The duke waved a sword over his head and cried, “Capture the guns!”
A defiant bugle spurred them into motion. They quickly broke into a canter heading east. Kirsten had to marvel at the beauty of their motion and how it utterly contrasted the carnage all around.
Kirsten rushed towards a fourth barracks but it collapsed in flaming ruin moments before she arrived. She staggered back and brushed away tears. Why hadn’t the duke freed everyone? Why had he locked them away to be burned alive? She noticed a lone horse, saddled but missing its rider. With a simple charm and a scoop of grain from a collapsed stable, she calmed its fears and was soon on its back. With a horse to ride, she hoped to get more of the innocents to safety.
All she could do was try.
***
Plax stopped when he had Ballok under the low branches of a spruce. He double checked the bindings and then woke his father with another spark.
Ballok’s eyes flashed open, red with anger, and he thrashed against his straps. “Slumbersparks don’t work for long on me. You little bastard. Release me at once and my wardens might let you live.”
Plax stayed just beyond Ballok’s reach just in case. “We saved your life. You know, the one you were so ready to waste a little while ago?”
Ballok. “You call yourself a horsewarden and you fear me so much you keep me strapped here? Release me.”
“No.” Plax warmed with the sound of that word being thrown in his father’s face. “Your wardens will be here soon. They’ll need to carry you.”
Ballok stopped squirming. His voice lowered to a menacing growl. “How does your friend know the things she knows?”
Plax had overheard everything. He still had secrets to keep from Longwood, but he craved the moment when he could reveal himself fully to Ballok. Wished nothing more than to see his face at that moment. “Ask her,” he said calmly. “Not me.”
“We just sit here then? Wait for Jiror?”
“No,” Plax stood up, revealing clearly how he was now carrying Ballok’s quiver and weapons. “I’m leaving. I’ll tell them where you are.”
“What? You can’t take those.”
“Watch me,” Plax replied and turned his back to depart.
Ballok shouted after him. “Thief! Wastrel! Coward! You can’t just leave me here!”
For once, the words didn’t sting. Plax kept walking but he turned his head to shout back. “How’s it feel?”
***
A score of dwarves were overseeing the recovery of the remaining gnomish cannons. Some watched with fettered amazement as the gnomes expertly activated the full power of the gems in each sled and spun the levitating heavy guns effortlessly to be towed away. The other dwarves, crossbows readied, watched the town burn.
From the smoke, a column of riders emerged.
“Cavalry approaching,” the dwarves called out. “Ready crossbows. Fire in pairs.”
The dwarves didn’t need cannon. They were disciplined and they knew the drill. In each pair, one would fire and then drop back to reload. They would keep up a steady barrage until the enemy closed. And then their enemy would really regret it.
A wounded officer, so covered in sparkling decorations that the dwarves thought he might be a giant gnome, directed his column to form line with a few bleating notes from a bugle. They found themselves lining up amid the broken corpses of the King’s Own Cavalry, horses and men alike, their breastplates and barding punched clean through by the gnomes’ vile guns. The troops swallowed their fear while their mounts q
uivered and danced in place, eyes white, ears back, mouths frothy, and noses puffing steam.
The gaudy officer raised his sword but did not have the chance to sound the advance. From the north, a swarm of white shafted arrows descended suddenly. Men dropped, horses screamed and bolted. A few tried to hold their line and were struck down by a second volley. “Elves,” the dwarves called out. “Stay down. Ready shields. Hold position.” The dwarves had no intention of fighting elves, but they didn’t mind if someone else took care of their problems for them. And, if worst came to worst, the dwarves knew that drill, too. They’d group together and raise their shields to form a shell all around them like the scales of an armadillo. The gnomes would have to fend for themselves.
***
Arch-duke Gow, Marshall of King Lornen’s armies, was struck by a single white shaft in the stomach. Pierecd with cramping pain, he slid helplessly from his horse and fell between the bodies of the King’s Own. Gasping mightily, he pressed the wound and felt warm stickly blood ooze through his fingers. He tried to pull some bandages from his belt pouch but any movement at all was excruciating. His bugle was close by, but his lips felt dry and he could not muster more than a shallow breath.
“Lornen will be ashamed,” he whispered. Then he watched as his own horse was struck down, and the remaining 1st Hussars bolted for cover south of the town.
Gow was about to accept the inevitable when an impossible shape caught his attention far to the east. A winged horse? More gnome tricks? His eyes could focus no more but his ears were filled with a cry that drenched his soul with dread.
***
Kirsten saw the arrows rise and fall along the eastern edge of Gristmill and she knew she had no more time. She turned her horse south and shouted at any who came into view, citizens and soldiers alike. “The elves are coming. Get to the river. Save yourselves.”
The Fahde’s gem brightened suddenly, filling Kirsten’s eyes with dots of brilliance. Her heart rose in her throat. She had only felt it surge that way once before. Squinting towards the east, she could make out a dark smudge soaring towards them all.
Then she heard its cry. The flaming buildings of Gristmill seemed to flinch. Flocks of birds exploded from the grassland along the Raelyn’s shore. Any horses still in the town burst from their confines and ran pell mell to the west. Only Kirsten’s charm kept her in the saddle.
“Too many charms and sparks,” she cursed herself. “We should’ve known better.”
“Drake,” she whispered. The image sent shivers coursing down her spine but she knew what she had to do. There were dwarves to the east. Maybe Grumm was there. And they needed to be saved.
***
At the sound of the shriek, the dwarves around the cannon looked up and whispered curses or prayers.
The gnomes scurried into the shadows without concern for elves to the north or dwarven crossbows at their backs.
Supervising the gathering supply train, Glandrew’s mouth dropped open and speechless for an instant.
Kointrim looked at Tarbuckle in horror. “Did you know? Is that why—?”
Tarbuckle laughed sharply. “If we’re going to die, we’ll take you with us, dwarf!”
Tarbuckle’s taunting shocked Glandrew to action. He turned to his daughter and barked a quick command. “Go. Warn the elves. Run, and don’t look back!”
Besra hesitated for a moment but her father’s pleading stare convinced her that there was no time to argue. “I’ll come back,” she replied. “By the twelve.”
“Go,” Glandrew urged, then turned to face the rest of his men. “Grab yer shields an’ form the shell.”
Tears burst from Besra’s eyes unbidden but she tightened her jaw, grabbed her maul, and darted north.
The dwarves formed up swiftly and soon they were crouched together, their shields interlocked in all directions. “Now make like a rock. Nah a sound.” All Glandrew could hope for was that the daft creature could have its fun somewhere they weren’t. And that the moody elves would not shoot his daughter by mistake.
***
The drake soared overhead towards the town and arcing gouts of purple flame dropped upon the remains of Gristmill. The bursts of heat could be felt even at that distance. Kirsten rode east carefully, timing her bursts of speed with moments when the drake was turned away.
She edged south towards the water’s edge, hoping that it might provide some defence. Distant cries from the river caught her attention and she turned, horrified to witness a panic driven mob of survivors from the town attempting to cross the Raelyn upon the piles of broken ice. From her vantage point, they seemed like ants that scurried upon the broken white landscape to disappear and reappear and disappear once more.
Then the drake circled and saw them, too. It dropped another blast of fire upon the town centre and then rose to consider its new prey.
Kirsten’s heart skipped. They were helpless. If the drake hit them with even one blast of its fiery breath, the ice would shatter and they would all die. All of those children. All of those innocents.
Kirsten held her breath and drew Fahde. Its gem ripped a gleaming wound through the smokey haze. The drake cried out when it saw the light, a shriek that felt like razors in her ears.
Kirsten waved the sword and pressed her knees into her horse’s flanks. “Ride!” she urged.
***
The drake turned its malevolent focus upon Kirsten alone but its hunting instincts had been honed by an eternity of conflict that predated even the One’s first unreachable children. It climbed to survey the path of its new prey. Casual breaths melted the forests to the left and right.
A swift turn and the water’s edge erupted in steam along the prey’s path. A spiral of destruction soon closed in. His prey was heading towards a bronze hill in the midst of pathetic trees. It would be the perfect place to end that stinging light. The hunger spurred by a thousand scents surfaced in the drake and he cried out again, shrill and clear, a sound that carried for leagues.
Once that stinging light was extinguished, nothing would stand between him and the mother of all. Once the world was burning, then he would slay all of his lessers who dared to contest his will, he would find the one dragon, and he would mate.
***
Kirsten’s horse withered under the high-pitched shriek and lost its footing. Kirsten fell swiftly and barely managed to roll out of the saddle. Her ears were dead to the sounds of the world, and her head spun with the force of her fall. The sword’s light was a second white sun, impossible to observe directly. Holding the sword down and away allowed her to make out the shape of a small, bronze, scaly hill ahead of her. No. She recognized some of the enravings from Grumm’s armour. Those weren’t scales. Those were shields. Dwarven shields.
Purple flames encircled the clearing and were climbing into the crowns of every tree and shrub. The air was being sucked away by the flames’ insatiable need. Kirsten knew they had no time to waste.
The drake landed on the other side of the dwarves with a crash that flattened trees and shook the earth. Kirsten was too far away to help them but she sprinted forward anyway, holding her sword ahead of her and shielding her eyes with her other arm.
The drake seemed to smile and belched another gout of purple across her path. Some of its fury dropped upon the dwarves and stuck to their shields, burning blue and green and belching the thickest black smoke.
Kirsten didn’t know what else to do. She pushed ahead hoping that the Fahde’s shieldlike power might be enough. The drake coiled, took a deep breath, and, uncoiling like a python, blasted flame directly upon her. It was met by a brilliant flash of light and the flames roiled away to all sides.
The drake looked offended—if that was even possible—and its hesitation gave Kirsten the extra time she needed to close the distance and jab Fahde towards its outstretched face. The blade pierced its nose effortlessly and the drake jumped into the air. Its massive leathery wings blasted Kirsten to the ground but when she looked up again it was already
far away.
Then she could hear the muffled cries for help, and smelled the horrific scent of burning metal and flesh. Fueled by panic, Kirsten pushed herself up once more and used her sword to wedge between the gaps of untouched shields, prying them apart. Groans and curses met her at once, and the shell slowly cracked apart exposing the dwarves trapped inside. The shields still engulfed in flame were flung hastily aside, and the dwarves themselves were hardly better off. They staggered about, patting away small flames, cutting away dollops of melted metal, or collapsing in heaps of blackened bodies. Some did not move at all.
One figure stumbled towards Kirsten and held out his hand. “Was it you who saved us? And with that pig sticker?”
Kirsten accepted the help to stand. She nodded. “I think so. It’s gone for now.”
