Krystelle did not like that plan. “We have only enough food and water for another two days. It would be better to rest here for a brief spell to warm ourselves and then find the entrance to Hallvard. Who knows how long this storm will last. It could be all winter!”
“No, this is an early snow,” said Bartek. “I grew up in these mountains remember. It will blow itself out overnight and we can be on our way, rested in the morn.”
Zefran’s craggy voice called out, “Teoma ordered us to see you to Hallvard. Safety is here, out of that blizzard.” Jerrod, the fourth member of their band nodded his agreement. He never said much and even a blizzard did not disturb his reticence.
“Three against one,” said Krystelle. “It seems this is an argument I am not going to win. But if this storm continues, I want us to scout the trail first thing in the morning. Even if we have to tie ourselves together to do it.”
“Agreed,” Bartok dismounted and pulled supplies off their pack mule to build a shelter with Zefran while Jerrod set to caring for the stock. Krystelle busied herself scavenging for twigs and dead grasses from between the rocks, hoping to find enough to get a small blaze going. The four of them had been traveling long enough to know the routine with minimum discussion, and were ingrained with the discipline befitting the Order of Gabirel.
Krystelle resorted to using the rest of their meager supply of wood brought up from the foothills with them when they passed beyond the tree line into the high mountains. She reasoned that it was better to survive this one night in relative comfort than try to stretch out their supply. If they could not find the entrance to Hallvard soon they would either die on this mountain or be forced to make their way back down, failing in their mission.
Before long their shelter stood anchored to the rock face and the four of them sat huddled around a merry fire, warming their frozen fingers and toes. Jerrod pulled out his pots and gathered a bit of snow into one. Throwing in dried meat and a handful of herbs he positioned it over the flames. Warm broth would do them well.
Krystelle drew the second watch and climbed into the shelter along with Zefran and Jerrod, leaving Bartok to stand vigil over their little fire. She was sure even her mother would have been scandalized to learn she was sharing a tent with these two men. To Krystelle, these were her comrades in arms. Besides, Zefran would have slit either of the other men’s throats if he thought they had designs on her. For all they were near to the same age, he thought of her as a much younger sister, and had since their early training together.
To Krystelle it felt she barely closed her eyes when Bartok shook her awake. Her bones ached from the freeze. It felt good to move, even if she would spend the next several hours away from her warm blankets. “Your watch” Bartok whispered so as not to awaken the others. Disentangling herself, she crawled out of the shelter, leaving Bartok to take her place.
Looking around she saw Bartok had been right concerning the storm. Far above, it had blown itself out and the first stars peeked out from behind the clouds. Wrapping her cloak about her body, she checked to be sure her sword was loose in its scabbard and settled in for what was to be a long, boring watch.
First order of business was to check the fire. First and last. Bartok would have stoked the small blaze before coming to rouse her. They could not afford to have the fire extinguish itself in the night and leave them scrambling to relight it in the darkness. Satisfied, she moved a few steps into the dark night to prevent herself from becoming night-blind from the flickering light.
She did not trust herself to settle in on one of the rock outcroppings. It was too cold and she too tired. Instead, she forced herself to move back and forth through the fissure leading to their encampment. On a normal watch she would circle the camp from a short distance, impossible along the narrow canyon. This would have to do.
Before long her mind wandered with the monotony of the dead end trail. Their most likely visitor was a sabre-cat or other beast, but the fire would dissuade those predators. Unless they were starving. She wondered how Cenric fared. When she left the Dazhberg, the boy had still not regained consciousness, and it was not clear whether he would be a prisoner or a sick guest when he woke. If he ever did.
Kidnapped by Sterling Lex, Cenric colluded with him to anoint the sorcerer as Arch-mage. That put the Wizards of Uriasz in a tenuous position. Their inherent loyalty was to the office of the Arch-mage as one sworn to protect the land and endowed with authority over the residual magic left in the world. Remnants left after the Ban, instituted through the alliance of Uriasz, Gabirel, and others following the devastation of the Dragon Wars.
Their mutual friend Sebastian had defeated Cenric. How she was not certain. Cenric commanded one of the five Eligium. Stones formed at the time of the Ban to serve as wells of power to contain the magical forces of the world. The Eligius Muliach, or Dragonstone, should have enabled Cenric to defeat Sebastian’s untrained ability with ease. Now the Dragonstone sat once again at the heart of the Dazhberg in the Aodhan Bret, along with its two sisters: the Sunstone and Moonstone. She did not like to think about the location of the final two stones, and whether Sterling Lex had already claimed them. That Lex gained possession of the Dragonstone in the first place and the fact it sat in the Aodhan Bret rather than in Hallvard where it belonged were two big reasons she and her three companions made this trek.
Once again reaching the outermost point on her patrol, Krystelle paused. Her hand drifted towards her sword hilt as she peered into the darkness. Cocking her head to the side, she strained for any hint of sound over the keening wind. There was nothing, yet in her gut she knew something was amiss.
Turning back to rouse the others she pulled up short. A stocky man, shorter than she by several hands, blocked the pathway. In the starlight, he appeared to be made of stone and rock. His beard twisted down to his studded breastplate in an interlace of braids that reminded her of a pumice stone. Deep set eyes blazed with an inner fire and she did not doubt he saw her much better than the reverse.
She did not know how he had gotten behind her in this narrow passage, but she was aware there would be more of his kind poised to cut her down if this did not go well. She was equally sure that her companions were likewise surrounded.
“Hail, and well met,” she said to the figure.
“Well met? We’ll jus see ‘bout ‘at,” he grumbled with a voice forged of distant thunder. “Declare yerself and why ye trespass ‘ere.” He gripped a wicked looking axe and ran one hand along the shaft, his point clear that a wrong answer would see that axe put to use.
She chose the old form for her response, “On my honor, I am Krystelle, daughter of Dimitri Mora seeking the Sons of the Mountain. I was a friend of Einhim, Seneschal of the Dazhberg and will drink again with him in the Great Sleep if the Lords are willing. I am a Sword-master of Gabirel and named Envoy to Hallvard."
His face was a stone, and she held her breath hoping this was who she thought. Those eyes blazed one last time before he inclined his head for her to follow and turned back toward the camp. There was no grace to his movements, yet he made no sound. Krystelle felt a touch better he had caught her unawares.
Reaching their fire, she found her companions on their knees and under guard. At the sight of her, Zefran breathed a heavy sigh and his body relaxed as best he could with the blade of an axe at his throat. Past them, a door opened outward from the obsidian rock face. The craftsmanship was so exquisite that they had not spotted the faint seam of the opening when they stopped at the wall earlier that day.
Her escort motioned to the contingent guarding Zefran, Bartok, and Jerrod. Wordlessly, they pulled the three men to their feet, slipping those axes into loops at their belts. Just before passing through the threshold, her escort turned back. “Ye are known Krystelle Mora, friend of Einhim. You are expected. I am Asegeirr, the Door-warden. Be you welcome to Hallvard.”
#
Once the party passed into the tunnel, Asegeirr turned to pull a set of levers. With barely a w
hisper, the obsidian door slid back into place, leaving the group in pitch darkness. One of the escort grabbed Krystelle’s arm to lead her down the tunnel. From the noises and curses around her she surmised that the companions were on the receiving end of similar treatment.
Dwarves were not renowned for their hospitality and, from her experience thus far, Krystelle deemed their reputation well-earned. The message behind a hidden door and a tunnel requiring one to trust guards as an escort was that strangers were not welcome here.
Making their way through the corridor, she sensed that they passed several junctions. Which direction they choose was a mystery to her. The darkness confused her sense of direction and she doubted her ability to escape this warren even with a torch to light her path. She had been told to expect a less than warm welcome, and things were meeting her expectations perfectly.
They walked without encountering any other denizens of the enclave until she realized that she could just make out the form of the dwarf providing her an escort, and a vague impression of the others in their party. Somewhere along the way their livestock had been taken off in a different direction. Either her eyes were adjusting to the darkness or there was a source of light ahead.
It turned out to be the latter. Coming around a corner, they emerged into an open, narrow chamber that was half-natural, half-constructed. A phosphorescent ore streaking through the long, natural wall to her right gave off enough illumination to cast the room in an unsettling green glow. A seam separating packed earth from cut stone ran along a few feet from the natural wall. The left wall was more regular in appearance as if it had been excavated.
With the increased light, their guards released them. Krystelle rubbed her arm where her escort had gripped. Asegeirr turned to her, “Wait here, Krystelle Mora. I’ll just be letting the Council know y’ve arrived.” He lumbered through an archway at the room's far end.
Although their escort moved off to another part of the chamber, it was evident they were there to keep an eye on Krystelle and her party and to discourage any exploration. Krystelle looked over her companions to gauge their reactions to the situation. Jerrod had moved closer to the wall to inspect the glowing seams of ore. His hand crept up to the greenish substance and then back as he stared. Bartok stood to the side, hand on his waist near where his sword normally resided. Lids drooping, his expression would lead a casual observer to believe him bored. Only someone who did not know him the way Krystelle did would make that mistake. That melancholy exterior demeanor masked his readiness to take action should things prove hostile.
Zefran worried her. His hands quivered and he appeared strung as tight as a new bow, glaring at the remaining guard. The wrong word would ignite an inferno. She caught Bartok’s eye and inclined her head towards Zefran. Looking over, Bartok pursed his lips and nodded. He made his way to the man and leaned to whisper in his ear. Zefran jerked and blinked, staring at Bartok, then shook his head and laughed at whatever Bartok said. It always amazed Krystelle when she watched the man defuse a situation that way, with the right word and a laugh. She herself struggled with leading in that manner, relying more on orders and position.
As they waited, more Dwarves filed into the chamber in groups of two and three. A few joined the guards while the others distributed themselves throughout. Krystelle noticed that the Dwarves positioned themselves between the humans and every exit.
Bartok made his way back to Krystelle, “I have a very bad feeling about this. I though the Dwarves were supposed to be our allies?” he said, just loud enough to prevent his words from carrying across the room.
Krystelle nodded, “Supposed to be is the key. There’s been little contact since the end of the Dragon Wars. A lot can happen.”
“I don’t have a lot of hope if we should have to fight our way out of this warren.”
“Nor do I. Keep Zefran cool. We may have to talk our way out.”
Asegeirr returned, cutting off Bartok's response. “Krystelle Mora, the Dwarven Council awaits you.” The four humans moved towards the entrance to the council chamber. Asegeirr held up a hand. “Only ye Krystelle Mora. Y’er guard must remain without. ‘Tis our custom that outsider men are not allowed in Council.”
Her three guards tensed and Bartok looked to Krystelle for orders. She gave her head a shake. Krystelle had no wish to die in a pointless fight against these odds. Besides, she did not yet understand their true circumstances. By the terms of the Ban, only a woman could be sent as envoy to the Dwarven Council. Perhaps this was why. “We will abide by your custom, of course. Lead the way.”
More green stones illuminated the dimly lit Council Chamber. It was much smaller than the Aodhan Bret, but had the feeling of great age. Three robed and hooded figures sat on stone benches atop a dais at the far end of the room. Approaching the dais, Krystelle bowed low and waited for their acknowledgment.
As the silence stretched on, Krystelle schooled herself to stillness. When the figure in the center spoke, it was like listening to glass breaking. “Greetings Krystelle Mora, emissary of Gabirel. I am Finnguala, Highest of the Gundarian Council. It has been a long time since mankind ventured into these caverns. I would know why you choose to darken our doors now.”
“Hail Finnguala, I would that my journey to you been made in better times. I bring dire news. Sterling Lex has returned and gained a march on us all, attempting to retrieve the Eligium for his own dark purposes. Three stones have been returned to the Aodhan Bret. The Sunstone, the Moonstone, and the Dragonstone.” The council members stirred at that last. “Somehow Sterling Lex gained possession of the Dragonstone, causing a great catastrophe at Uriasz before we were able to recover it. Gabirel seeks your wisdom as to how the stone came to the Dark Wizard.”
Finnguala leaned forward, “And ‘ave you brought the Dragonstone with you, then?”
“I have not. It stands in the Aodhan Bret in its rightful place.”
“Rightful place? Its place is here, in this chamber. Or do ye not remember the Accord?” She did not wait for Krystelle to respond. “The Siothrun was given over to mankind, the Ealadha to the Elves. The Eligius Muliach was given to the Dwarves, and we paid a heavy price for it. Twas the Dwarves who awakened the great wyrmms and twas the Dwarves who broke them, harnessing them for use in the wars. The cost of the Ban to us was the loss of the magic that allowed us to tame those mighty beasts and they protection they provided us. Small consolation that the Dragonstone would be given over to us. A constant reminder of what we lost. We demand what is owed us.”
“My Lady Finnguala, I can not speak to what has come before. Forces are moving across the land and I am come to seek the counsel of the Dwarves and the might of your axes. Rather than bring the Dragonstone across the lands, we beseech you to join it in battle. Or are the dwarves as greedy as the stories say?”
“Ignorant child! Do you have any idea what it cost us the last time we went to war on behalf of mankind? Do you understand why Dwarven men crave and covet the gems of the earth, leading to accusations of greed and avarice? I can see you do not, so I will tell you. And show you. Cast your gaze upon that which mankind has not seen in a thousand years, the face of a Dwarven woman!”
Krystelle gasped as Finnguala lowered her cowl, revealing her face. Where the men she had seen looked like they were carved of granite, Finnguala shimmered and shone like the richest, purest diamond. The two other members of the council likewise lowered their hoods. One emerald and one sapphire.
“I have not set foot outside these caves to gaze on the light of day in my lifetime, Krystelle Mora. There was a time when Dwarven men and Dwarven women mingled with the outside world. Then the hearts of men grew greedy, looking upon us and coveting what they saw. In the dark of night they took and slaughtered our womenfolk. Slaughtered them for the stuff of their being to make baubles and jewelry to drape on their women. Only a handful of Dwarven women survived it and retreated to the caves, defended by their menfolk. We cut ourselves off from the world to rebuild our people.”
<
br /> “After many long centuries, Dwarven men returned, to the world of men. In the long generations, mankind had forgotten all they had done, yet their women still wore the gemstones. It is true, some had been mined from the earth. But when a Dwarf sees a diamond necklace, a sapphire ring, an emerald bracelet, they do not perceive a mere stone. They see a mother, sister, cousin, lover. And mankind calls us greedy.”
“I’m sorry, I did not know…”
Finnguala interrupted her. “You are sorry. Bah. Your words are meaningless without the Dragonstone. We poured our magic into the stone and with it, the magic that sustains our race. It is our lifeblood and we would have it back. It was stolen from these halls and I doubt very much that Sterling Lex had anything to do with it. Gabirel and Uriasz. Those are the real thieves here. As Gabirel’s representative, you will be our hostage until the stone is returned. Guards!”
#
Sebastian’s day started before dawn when Jarmo Dale burst into the barracks hall with his standard mantra, “Rise you lads! We’ve work to do if ever a one of you is fit to ride out on behalf of Gabirel!”
Jarmo was a thick man, his legs bowed out from years in the saddle. A veteran of every engagement in the past twenty years, a grey swath of hair framed his deep-lined face. Sebastian always had trouble keeping himself from staring at the stump of the man’s right arm. The story went that Jarmo lost the arm in Sterling Lex’s assault on the Dazhberg. Another man might retire in relative peace, not Jarmo Dale. He was a soldier’s soldier and if he could no longer ride to battle, he would serve Gabirel as Drill-master.
Pity the raw recruit slow to respond to Jarmo’s call, the rest of their day would find them mucking stalls and clearing latrines. Sebastian made that mistake only once since his formal induction to the ranks of the Squires.
Sebastian was no stranger to rising with the sun. Life on his Uncle Caleb’s farm in Taleros had disciplined him to hard work. Still, so many weeks on the road with Krystelle got him used to setting his own schedule and making his own decisions. That changed once they returned to the Dazhberg with the Dragonstone and Cenric in tow. In Lord Teoma’s eyes, he was one more raw recruit to mold into a warrior worthy of the title Knight of Gabirel.
Eligium- The Complete Series Page 29
