by David Rice
“Yer an elf,” he said. “Have ye got healing? We could use it.”
“I’m—,” Kirsten hesitated, wondering how to introduce herself. “—not sure. There are others who I can get soon enough.”
The dwarf took a knee. Everywhere she could see, his skin was blackened with burns.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here in time,” she said and looked away.
“Na bother,” he coughed. “Ma kin’s been through worse.” Then he looked at Kirsten again, regarded the glowing gem of her sword, and his eyes narrowed. “Ah, you don’t happen to be friends with another dwarf, are yeh?”
“Grumm?” Kirsten burst out. She took a few steps towards the more injured dwarves. “Is he here? Is he alright?”
Glandrew raised his eyes skyward and quietly mouthed something profound. “Nah and yeh,” he stated.
Kirsten scanned the sky once more and then sheathed her sword. The gem was pulsating softly now. “What do you mean?”
“I know him. Heard his stories. Didna’ believe him at first. He’s headed back to Thunderwall.”
Kirsten sat down. Exhaustion was crawling into her bones.
Glandrew ignored his pain and sat down heavily beside her. “Heard stories about you.”
Kirsten looked at the battle-worn dwarf and grinned. “Coming from Grumm, I bet you did.”
Glandrew grinned. “So, drake’s are afraid o’ yer sword?” “That one is now,” Kirsten stated.
“An’ only you can use it?”
Kirsten frowned. “Others have tried to take it. It burns them.”
Glandrew nodded and sighed. “So, how’d yeh do that? Scare that monster off.”
Kirsten shrugged. “Only thing I could do. I poked it in the nose.”
Despite the pain, Glandrew burst out laughing and he surprised Kirsten with a slap on her back. “Seems like there’s some dwarf in you, after all.”
Kirsten grinned.
Besra rushed into the clearing followed by a dozen elves. Most of the elves took up positions in a circle, their bows trained skyward. Besra stopped to regard the horror of her companions’ injuries, and the ridiculousness of her father’s fading laughter.
“They have some healing but can provide more in Longwood,” Besra stated. Her gaze fell upon Kirsten and she raised an eyebrow. “We saw the beast land. We thought you would all be dead.”
Glandrew flashed a grin. “Always poke a drake in the nose,” he said. Then his demeanour solidified once more and he struggled to stand and face the elf accompanying his daughter. “I’m Glandrew, Thane of the Haggisdrop Clan of Thunderwall Holdfast. We’ll certainly appreciate any help ye can give but we gotta be back to The Crossing as soon as we’re able. Who knows what mess o’ trouble the gnomes are cooking up behind our backs, eh?”
The elf signaled four of his bowmen to provide aid. They quickly began to circulate among the injured dwarves, casting charms and administering balms.
“I am Jiror of Longwood.” He turned to face Kirsten. “Where’s Ballok?”
Kirsten’s expression deadened. “Rescued him from the gatehouse when it collapsed.”
“You weren’t to leave him,” Jiror scolded. “Where is he?”
Kirsten stood up and put her hand on the pommel of Fahde. “Left him in a safe place. He’ll need help, though. Lost his leg.”
Jiror paled. “How could you let such a thing—”
Glandrew put a blackened meaty hand on Jiror’s chest ready to push him away. “Watch yer tongue, lad. She sent that drake runnin’ for its life. Saved more than just this Ball-lick fella you seem to like so much.”
Jiror stepped back and brushed his armour where Glandrew had touched him. He signalled the rest of his bowmen to follow. The he levelled a harsh stare upon Kirsten. “We will find him. When you return to Longwood, half-breed, you will answer for your failures here.”
The dwarves watched Jiror depart with six of his elven wardens.
“Some nerve,” Besra stated. “At least the healers stayed.”
Another of the elves stood. His tone was amicable and sad. “Jiror is that way with everyone,” he stated. “Regretfully, we could not save two of your people. The burns were too severe. I am sorry.”
Besra gasped, “Which two? Yoril?”
A tall dwarf groaned from the far side of the clearing. “Don’t worry about me.”
Besra ran over to her friend.
Glandrew shook his head. “So, uhhh, This friend of yours, Grumm o’ the Rockbottom Clan? Good in a scrap? Ye trust him.”
Kirsten nodded. “He’s the best. In every way.”
Glandrew looked back towards Besra where she was fussing over Yoril. “Hmmm. Ye don’t say,” he mumbled.
XLIII
Alone except for his horse, Sakhlyn, Nerrod had ridden for a fortnight through the thawing peat and waist high grasses of the steppes. He followed a herd of caribou for a time until he could end the life of an aging straggler to preserve his own. Despite the threat of the lifebane at his back, he took a handful of days to offer some thanks to the lands of his ancestors. Around a low fire, he skinned the animal, cured the leather with horse urine, cut the meat into strips, rubbed it with the last of his salt, and smoked it until it was a dry jerky that would last months. He wrapped some of the meat as an offering to the tribes he hoped to encounter, and left the organs in a circle of stones as a gift for the beasts who shared the steppes. Then, on the sixth day, Nerrod rode east once more, following the rivers upwards towards the foothills where he knew the Swift Current clan usually wintered.
Nerrod was not disappointed. Five more days brought him to the Swift Current hunting grounds. They had seen him a league away and surprised him by emerging suddenly from hunting burrows deep in the grass.
“Stranger. You enter Swift Current territory. Why do you come this way?”
Nerrod slipped easily from Sakhlyn’s back, bowed, and presented a package of meat. “Please accept this gift. I bring news from the west. The lifebane approach.”
The Swift Current hunters laughed. “More pleasure in the hunt,” one scoffed.
“Bring them to us and we shall end them like all the rest,” another warrior stated. This one was wearing a leather vest covered in rows of bones. “What is your name, wanderer? Where is your home? Why are you bringing such news rather than fighting?”
Nerrod stood taller and his eyes flashed. “I am Nerrod of the River Riders. And my kin are no more. Slain by an army of lifebane that attacked through the snows of spring.”
The warrior with the bone vest stepped closer, sniffed the air, walked around both Nerrod and Sakhlyn, and then looked westward. “I am Yermak, First of my Clan. You and your mount bear scars that would fell a normal horsewarden. What sorcery is this? Are you a healer?”
Nerrod stiffened. “My tale is a troubled one and deserves to be heard by your Clan Chieftain.”
Yermak shook his head. “I am the First. I will hear it and decide if it is a buzz that should trouble my Chieftain’s ears.”
Nerrod took a deep breath. “The lifebane have united their clans and formed an army of thousands. They are led by a powerful shaman who can shape the weather. They surprised our camp and only I survived.”
“You ran?”
Nerrod restrained his temper. “I fell, and was saved by the enemy who are not my enemy.”
Yermak’s glare was sharpened steel. “Speak the truth directly,” he demanded. “or your tale ends here.”
“The lifebane shaman who leads the army has not united all of his people. One of their clans has rebelled and it was they who saved me, and my horse. They urged me to warn the rest of my kin.”
Yermak snarled. “And you believed them? They follow you to bait us into a trap.”
“No,” Nerrod countered. “I refused to help in any way. When I left, I took days switching back my trail to see if they were lying. I have not been followed.”
“The lifebane are scum,” Yermak spat. “Trusting them is poison.”
Nerrod kept his temper in check. “They rebel because the lifebane army seeks to end us all, and they have turned the bulk of their army towards Longwood.”
“Folly. Their wardens are led by one of ours. Ballok. A fierce fighter without mercy. They will be crushed.”
Nerrod lowered his eyes. “They have an ally, I know not how, that makes all of our skill and all of our heart inconsequential.”
Yermak’s eyes widened. “You bear a traditional gift of respect, and now pair that with an insult?”
Nerrod’s eyes met Yermak’s. “They have a drake. One from the legends. Its fires cannot be resisted. It is the drake that killed all of my kin, the lifebane merely rounded us up to be burned alive.”
The horsewardens surrounding Nerrod gasped or growled epithets.
Yermak looked west. “I see no drake. I see no army.”
“But the drakes have awakened, Yermak,” another warrior added. “They clash with one another among the tallest peaks of the world’s edge. We have seen their purple fires at night.”
Yermak frowned. “That much may be true.” He pointed to Sakhlyn. “But it is madness to think that anyone can control a drake.”
“My kin perished thinking the same thing,” Nerrod stated firmly.
“It is also madness to think that the lifebane could pledge friendship and be sincere. There are other motives here that you do not see.”
“I also believed that, and yet they treated me fairly and called me brother.”
“Bah,” Yermak scoffed. “You have hit your head too often falling from your horse. Did your mother teach you nothing? Flattery is a trinket to win over the weak.”
Nerrod restrained his temper. “I know what I know. Respect that I am here to spare your Clan the fate of mine.”
Yermak shrugged. “To horse. We will take this messenger to the Chieftain and he will decide the veracity of these claims.”
Nerrod gave the open palmed signal of thanks, swiftly mounted, and was soon following
Yermak and his score of hunters along steep twisting paths deeper into the foothills.
***
Nerrod followed the example of the other horsewardens and dismounted outside the gate.
When the Keeper of Stallions took Sakhlyn’s reins, he smiled, and patted the horse’s thick neck. “This boy will get fine foals,” he exclaimed. “A worthy gift for our Chieftain.”
Nerrod’s eyes widened. “He is not—” he began, but a look of derision from Yermak made him stop. Nerrod followed Yermak directly into a large leather clad structure.
Inside, grass mats of many colours coverered the ground, and the skins of mighty animals hung from every wall. A large fire smouldered at the centre, filling the space with a warm amber glow while its smoke curled wraithlike towards an opening at the highest point.
Sitting cross-legged around the fire were three men and two women. All were older than Nerrod and they wore a colourful variety of leathers and furs.
Yermak knelt and Nerrod did the same.
“A messenger from the Lower Steppes brings unwelcome news,” Yermak announced.
The oldest horsewarden pushed the hair from his face with weathered hands, and cleared his throat to speak. His eyes were sharp and lively and his voice penetrating yet quiet.
“We are the Council. I am Holok. Speak your name. Share your news.”
“I am Nerrod of the River Riders. The lifebane have assembled an army that is moving to butcher all of Longwood and all of the Steppes. They are led by a powerful shaman who controls a drake.”
Holok’s brow furrowed while the other members of the council staed wide-eyed at the visitor.
“How come you by this knowledge, Nerrod of the River Riders? Where are your kin?”
Nerrod’s eyes reddened as he remembered too much of that morning. “Burnt alive by the drake or slain in ambush by the lifebane.”
“And why are your bones not resting with your family?”
Nerrod blushed. “I fell in battle and was saved by a tribe of lifebane who have rebelled against their shaman.”
“These lifebane rebelled against their leader? Even though he has a drake enthralled?”
Nerrod took a deep breath. “I did not believe them, and feared they were just using me. I thought I would be followed but—”
Holok raised his palm gently. “I am deeply sorry for the loss of your mighty clan. The beauty of the Steppes is lessened by their loss.”
Nerrod shivered against tears, and rage. “I seek retribution, Chieftain. I seek some honour in my survival.”
Holok nodded. “We understand. Why did you trust the lifebane rebels?”
Nerrod paused. When he continued, his voice vibrated with a clarity of feeling that surprised even him. “They called me brother. They said we were all brothers. They said the only enemy now were the drakes. Their hearts were in their words.”
Holok took a deep breath and looked to his fellow council members. They shared the tight-lipped smiles of reluctant epiphany.
As if opening a relic for the first time, the Chieftain’s voice was slow and measured. “Our oldest tales say as much. We were all brother’s once.”
“What?” Yermak exclaimed.
Nerrod was revolted by the thought, and yet it felt true.
“It was a time of the first awakening, when our southern kin destroyed themselves and the drakes of creation had to be harnessed and tamed by the most extreme measures.”
“Why have none of us heard of this?” Yermak challenged.
Holok put a finger to his lips and his eyes spoke softly of grief. “Some tales are only told to elders. Unfortunately, not all tales are retold, and our understanding of them is fractured by the choices of some of our ancestors.”
“How can the lifebane be our brothers? They are warped and cruel creatures.”
Holok sighed. “Listen with an open heart, Yermak. The One divided us after the first awakening and gave each a new purpose so that such terrors might never be awakened again. The One trapped the mother dragon and the drakes in separate locations, starving them of their access to the weave, forcing them to sleep. But to hold the weave in place, the One had to concentrate. To do this best, the One created Xlaesin as his resting place and the focal point for the weave. Then the One entered an eternal sleep, and through dreams has kept the weave anchored and the world safe.”
“What tasks were we given?” Yermak asked.
“Those we now call the lifebane were kept in the far north to defend Xlaesin from any disturbance. Being so close to such powerful streams of the weave slowly transformed them, transfigured their skin and their bones, and added a keen edge to their affinity for sparkweaving. The rest of us were instructed to preserve all knowledge and guide the younger children of the One. Being farther from the weave, we retained more of the One’s intended grace and outward beauty than our northern brethren.”
Yermak was stunned. “And you believe such tales?”
“Our earliest sages recorded them faithfully and sent them to Longwood for preservation. You can read them there, if you wish.”
“But the drakes are awake once more,” Nerrod exclaimed. “Have we failed The One?”
Horok sighed. “I fear that we have started down that path of failure blindly. But we persist, and that must be enough.”
“Why have the lifebane abandoned their duty?”
Holok regarded Yermak sadly. “I would very much like to ask an elder of these rebels that same question.”
Yermak recoiled. “You ask too much, elder. They are lifebane. They would win our trust only to twist it.”
Holok’s eyes hardened and he raised his hand once more and formed a fist. “At times, you remind me of my youngest brother, may he find happiness.”
Yermak lowered his eyes. “I am sorry, Elder.”
Holok nodded. “The messenger has arrived in a timely manner and he speaks true. Our true enemy is extinction. And just as they have destroyed his clan, they will destroy us all one by one
if we do not act swiftly, wisely, and together.” Holok turned to face his fellow elders, flicked his fingers to cast a shadowspark around them, and began a long conversation about the future.
Yermak sat down cross-legged, grabbed a handful of dried fruit and passed the bowl towards Nerrod. “Could be awhile,” he said.
***
When the shadowspark faded, the stars and moons filled the sky with their glimmers of light.
Yermak nudged Nerrod, and they both returned to a kneeling position.
Holok cleared his throat once more and pointed to Yermak. “I task you, our First, to assemble four parties. The first is to scout the approaches to the nearest Dwarven holdfast. Is is still silent? Can it be entered? Are its approaches defensible? The second is to scout to the west, find the enemy who seek our destruction, and report back with their numbers. The third you will lead personally, and it is to prepare ambushes and traps that may confuse, mislead and delay an approaching enemy.”
