“Da! I was afraid for ye!” A short figure leaped from the drover’s seat and barreled into Brom’s arms. Tilda hugged her father a long moment. She pulled away, and her eyes went to Creel. At seeing Rada, her face fell. “Oh gods. Is… is she…?”
“Aye, she’s gone,” Brom said quietly.
Creel gently laid Rada in the back of the cart. He snapped off the quarrel in her back and tossed it aside. When he turned, he was knocked back a step by Tilda’s fierce embrace.
“I’m so sorry, Creel. I know how much she meant to ye, and ye to her. We all loved her like family.” Tilda was weeping against him, face buried in his stomach.
He stroked the dwarf maid’s thick mass of curly brown hair. “Aye, thank you for that. You’re a brave lass to aid us. Rada was content to die a warrior’s death and not wasting away in a sickbed. I feel the same.”
“Aye, ’twas the manner she wished to go,” Brom added, voice thick with emotion. “We brought the cart since Pincushion didn’t have the strength to walk so far… also in case ye or the queen was injured… Never thought we’d be bringin’ her back like so…” He swallowed heavily and rubbed at the corner of an eye.
Tilda released Creel and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “Are we going back home?”
“After a stop in the forest first,” Creel replied.
He rode in the back with Rada while father and daughter drove the cart deep into the woods. They stopped in a serene spot: a small, shaded clearing with a clear brook running through it. The autumn leaves still on the trees were a bright blaze of reds and oranges. Creel couldn’t help but think Rada’s hair would have shone in the long rays of the sinking sun much as the leaves did.
The three of them gathered deadwood and built a small pyre. Once that was done and the sky turned to an orange-and-purple sunset, Creel laid Rada gently atop the pyre, in the ancient way of the north, for she hailed from Coldshore, at the northern edge of the continent. He folded her arms across her breast, then Tilda offered her cloak to cover Rada’s body.
The three of them stood together before the pyre, waiting until darkness fell, then Creel lit a brand and held it aloft. “Hear me, Sabyl, Mistress of the Night. I ask that you welcome Rada the Knife to a place in your halls. The world will be a poorer place with her loss, yet she shall live on in our hearts and in legend. Loyal friend, companion-in-arms, lover… she was all these things and much more. Fierce of heart and spirit, sharp of tongue and sharper of wit, we shall miss her greatly.” Creel’s last words choked off.
Brom cleared his throat. “Reiktir, please see that our friend finds her peace in the afterlife, whether it be beside yer forge or Sabyl’s shadowy halls. Pincushion was a fiery lass, and I always thought o’ her as a daughter in a way, at least till I had one of me own.” He put his arm around Tilda’s waist and held her tight. “So goes into the night Rada the Knife, Pincushion, one of the legendary Giantslayers o’ Coldshore, and we grieve her passing.”
Creel touched brand to tinder. Smoke curled up, and the bark and dried leaves crackled and swiftly caught fire. Within moments, the pyre was blazing brightly, and Rada’s remains were consecrated by fire.
***
Iris, Rafe, and Selda were all waiting anxiously upon their return to the Giantslayers Inn some hours later, clustered together at one end of the bar. At seeing only three return, they looked first confused then alarmed.
Creel held up a hand to forestall the questions. He beckoned all of them to step inside the kitchen for a moment, away from prying eyes and ears.
“I bear ill news,” he said without preamble. “Sianna has been taken by our foes. We must ride to Carran this very night. Our enemies have placed a puppet loyal to them upon the throne as regent. The queen would want us to muster some defense for the kingdom. Once that is underway, I shall attempt to locate and rescue her.”
Iris and Rafe were understandably shocked and concerned by the news. “We are ready to leave right away,” Iris said as Rafe nodded agreement.
During the ride back into town, Brom had filled Creel in on what had happened during his capture. After not having heard any word of Sianna and him by the day following their capture, Iris and Rafe had gone to the market, keeping their eyes peeled for any of the castle staff they might recognize. Iris eventually spotted one of Cece’s kitchen girls and cornered her. Gossip had carried throughout the keep after their imprisonment, so she knew they had been tossed into the dungeons, although nobody knew Sianna had been spirited away early that same morning. Once Iris returned with the news, Brom declared they would muster a rescue. Rada, stubborn as she was, naturally wouldn’t let her old comrade-in-arms go without her.
“What of Rada?” Selda asked although she looked as though she already knew by their grim faces.
Creel shook his head. “Fallen during the fighting.”
Selda embraced him, nearly as emotional as her daughter had been, for Rada had been like family to all of them. Rafe and Iris gave their condolences before retreating to their rooms to gather their meager belongings.
Brom stuck a tumbler of dwarven spirits in Creel’s hand once Selda returned to the kitchen.
“To Pincushion,” the dwarf said solemnly.
“Aye, to Rada the Knife. And the last two remaining giantslayers.”
They downed a couple tumblers in rapid succession before Creel recalled Rada’s final words. Rafe and Iris returned to the common room with a pair of packs stuffed with provisions, courtesy of the practical Selda.
“Before we depart, I must attend to a private matter,” Creel told them. “I’ll be with you shortly.”
“Iris and I can procure some mounts,” Rafe offered. “We could meet near the city’s north gate when you’re ready. Will it just be the three of us?”
“Aye, good thinking.” He fished in his coin purse and frowned at realizing how low on coin he was.
“Here.” Selda stepped forward and dropped a stack of gold crowns in Rafe’s hand. “Brom is too old to run off and try to save the kingdom, but we shall be doin’ our part nonetheless.”
“Aye, thank you,” Rafe said.
“You’ve done more than enough already—all of you,” Creel protested. “Best now is for you to lie low. I’m certain the mayor’s thugs will try to turn the city upside down after my escape.”
Brom had his arm around his wife’s waist. “Bah. Let ’em come. This’ll all be for naught if the kingdom falls to chaos.”
“And we’ll be doin’ more if we can—don’t ye doubt it.” Selda smiled.
Creel squeezed her shoulder gratefully before turning to Rafe. “I’ll meet you and Iris in an hour near the gate. Steer clear if it looks like extra red-coats about. We’ll have to come up with another plan in that case.”
After the two youths departed, he filled another glass of spirits and went to Rada’s room. He opened the window to clear the stale sickroom air and sat at her small desk for a few moments, anxious about whatever she had left him. After he steeled his resolve with another slug of spirits, he opened the drawer. Within was a plain envelope with the name “Dak” written on it. He turned it over and opened it gently, his hands shaking slightly.
The letter within was composed in a rough scrawl—Rada hadn’t learned to read or write until later in life and had never been too concerned about penmanship.
Dearest Dak,
I’m truly saddened I won’t be able to say these words to you in person. Don’t blame yourself—the gods have larger things planned for you. I’ve known that since I met you, and I’m content I could claim a small portion of your heart for myself over these past years. We’ve both always been too strong-headed to admit our deeper feelings, I reckon, for I can’t be positive you feel the same, yet I suspect so.
As I lie here on my bed in my waning days in this world, I find myself thinking back over the years. I finally sent Stormy away from my side to write this, for he was fussing over me like a nursemaid. As an old woman, I find myself often remembering the best days of my li
fe, most of which revolve around you, of course, also the great hunt with Stormy and Ebbo. Odd how those earlier memories are the most vivid.
As if it were but yesterday, I still remember the first time I saw your handsome face in the mead hall—noble yet somehow sad at the same time, and I couldn’t resist approaching you and Stormy. (Funny thing is, I never truly intended to go on the hunt at all. Duke Weiland always threw a good party, and who was I to turn down as much free food and ale as I could put down? Also, the chance to win a good amount of coin tossing knives with a bunch of drunken louts was too much to resist. Only after meeting you and Stormy did the idea really take root. Besides, how could I back down after all that tough talk?) With a (slight) twinge of guilt, I remember using my talent to beat you at dagger tossing though I never did admit to the fact you had me beat fair and square. But what fun is life if we always play fair? I think back on the panic squeezing my chest as you lay there smashed flat by that first giant we encountered in the mountains, and arguing fiercely with Stormy and Ebbo that we wouldn’t leave you behind. Then later, lying beneath the furs with you (I think you particularly enjoyed waking up to that, am I right?). And of course, the victorious moment when, together, we struck down Himmalog. Then there were your well-spoken words at Ebbo’s funeral, and of course the return to claim our prize from the duke. Later, I remember clearly the wind in my hair and your arms around my waist as we sailed down the Azure Coast. The intensity with which we made love that first time, and many other times after. Later, when we rescued Selda (which I’m so happy worked out well for her and Stormy! She’s a sweetheart and has enough sense for the both of them).
Alas, I’m beginning to ramble, and my good hand is cramping up. To cut to the chase, I’ve had a full life and wouldn’t trade it for the world. Don’t grieve for me—I don’t want your remaining days to be filled with such consuming sorrow and emptiness!! Wherever you are now, just know thoughts of you fill my heart at the end, and there’s nothing to forgive. I’ll be awaiting you patiently in the afterlife, be it days or centuries, however long it takes to reach the end of the path you travel. For then I’ll have naught but time, and the gods themselves won’t be able to keep us apart.
Ever your love,
Rada
Creel blew out a long breath, wiping away the tears on his cheeks. He finished the dwarven spirits in one gulp, thoughts astir with memories of Rada and their good times together, and found he was smiling despite his pain, for her words made it feel as if she was there with him.
Aye, you’ve the right of it. Too strong-headed to ever admit my feelings, and now it’s too late. But you knew it and felt the same—that’s what is important.
A simple appreciation of her worth filled him, and he felt ashamed for never having made an honest woman of her and taking her as his wife. The topic had never come up in discussion with her over all those years although he and Brom had mentioned it once or twice late into the night before the hearth, their tongues loosened with drink.
The angry yowl of an alley cat outside the window interrupted his flood of memories.
Best tend to the matter before me now. She’d scold me with that sharp tongue of hers if I make a cock-up of everything. Somehow, the thought brought another smile to his face.
He carefully replaced the letter in its envelope. Then he closed the window and the door of Rada’s room and returned to his own chamber. At first, he placed Rada’s note in the bottom of his trunk but then thought better of it and slipped it into his pack.
Taking his time, he gathered his gear, including an old bow and quiver of arrows, replenished some of the herbs in his satchel, and recovered a large ceramic jar the size of a small ale cask from the bottom of his wardrobe. He cautiously checked the seal to make sure the substance hadn’t leaked at all, but it was as he’d left it nearly three years earlier—probably a bad idea, in hindsight, to have let it sit there so long. He donned his leather armor, pausing a moment to worry at the scorched hole in the breastplate with a frown. Then he strapped Final Strike to his waist and carried his pack and the ceramic cask to the common room.
He found his dwarven friends gathered in the kitchen. “Well, I’ll be hitting the road again, I’m afraid. Best get done what needs doing. Selda, can you spare your husband for an hour or so?”
Brom’s face lit up, and Selda gave the two of them a knowing glance before nodding slowly. “Aye, but no foolishness, ye hear me, Brom Stormbrew?”
“Aye, me love.” He kissed his wife dutifully on the cheek.
“I packed ye some provisions,” Tilda said shyly. She held a sack full of bread, cheese, smoked meat, and fresh fruit. “Also gave ye a refill.” His old, dented flask was as reassuring as an old friend when she handed it over.
“Bless you, lass. You’ll make a marvelous wife for some lucky lad one day.” He leaned over and kissed her on the top of her head.
Tilda blushed but looked pleased.
Creel and Brom left the kitchen. “Feel up to working the Goblin-Tosser?”
Brom’s eyes alighted on the cask sitting beside Creel’s pack on the floor. A wicked smile spread beneath his beard. “Surely ye already know the answer to that, me friend.” He rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
“I’ll go bring it up from the cellar. In the meantime, you’d better get a saddle on old Perri. I’ll meet you out back.”
Chapter 39
Kulnor Strongaxe tossed his hand axe with an easy underhand throw, sending the well-balanced weapon spinning upward into the air. A moment later, the scorched, battered haft smacked solidly back into the palm of his hand. He threw it again, as a child might toss a harmless ball into the air, the steady repetition relaxing. His thoughts wandered, a mere fraction of his concentration remaining on the keen weapon, the activity around him momentarily forgotten as the old axe took him down the path of memory.
The axehead was good dwarven steel, honed to a razor’s edge and in much better shape than the old wooden haft, which was blackened and scored, yet the Strongaxe clan sigil was still visible, carved near the base. Kulnor could have had the axe head remounted to a new haft, of course, but he refused. The steel had been quenched with the blood of slain orcs and goblins, the wood stained dark with it. The axe had survived dragonfire and boombarrel explosion both, and it hadn’t failed yet.
It was all that remained of Kulnor’s elder brother, Kalder, who had years earlier traveled with the kinslayer Waresh Hammerhelm on their ill-fated quest to reclaim the ancient fortress where Kulnor presently found himself.
The hand axe hadn’t left his side in the five years since he’d recovered it, embedded in a block of limestone, its resting place after being hurled away during the explosion that claimed Kalder’s life with his final heroic act. At least the madman Waresh had the good sense to record those events in a journal, later found in his chambers in Silver Anvil Hall some time after he had fled in shame, his life forfeit after his crimes. Had it not been for that journal, Kulnor might have never learned any details of his brother’s fate.
In the five years since Kulnor had first ventured to Torval’s Hold with the dwarven exploratory party, the ancient fortress had been cleared of the ruin and filth that once despoiled it, the remaining orcs and goblins slaughtered, the interior mostly rebuilt and restored. Following the murder of King Bhalkam Hammerhelm at the hands of his son, Waresh, Sioned Hammerhelm, daughter and surviving heir, had assumed the mantle of Queen of Silver Anvil Hall. Ever since Waresh’s quest, the fate of Torval’s Hold had remained in limbo until the exploratory party was sent those five years past. Once Sioned received the report of the Hold’s condition, she made the controversial decision to rebuild and reopen the fortress for resettlement.
“Me brother might’ve ultimately gone mad and turned to Belgond’s evil ways,” Sioned had announced in a speech to the entire hall, “but plenty o’ good dwarves accompanied him in what was a worthy quest to reclaim the hall of our ancestors. I’ve a mind to not let that effort and those lives b
e for naught.”
Kulnor agreed with his queen. The elders had protested and bickered over the decision, but he figured if Sioned could overcome her grief after the tragic murder of kith and kin by her own brother, including losing both her parents, along with a number of citizens of the Hall, then none of the others had reason to complain. He doubted he could’ve mustered a complaint even if pressed to, since he was a tad smitten with his queen.
Who isn’t? She’s young, beautiful, brave, charismatic…
He shook his head and tromped those thoughts back down to the nether reaches of his mind, where they belonged. Instead, he turned his thoughts to the present, focusing on the activity around him, and his heart swelled in pride at the difference five years had made.
The skeletons, rubbish, vermin, and offal had been cleared away long ago. Rotting pennants and wooden skeletons of everything from lift platforms to market stalls were long gone. Hammers rang on nails as carpenters rebuilt the wooden structures. Industrious work crews bellowed back and forth in coordination as they carted away the last of the rubble while stonemasons repaired weakened mortar and set newly cut stone blocks to replace those crumbled away. New banners had even been hung, with the devices of Silver Anvil Hall on them. To the best of everyone’s knowledge, no descendants of Torval Brightshield had survived the fall of the Hold in ancient times, so the stewardship of the fortress was temporarily Queen Sioned’s until she met with the king of Stonespur Citadel and they put their heads together to decide what to do with the place.
In the meantime, work went on, and the old fortress was shaping up quite nicely.
Kulnor tossed the axe again, watching the lamplight glint on the steel as it spun in the air before slapping back into his hand. He couldn’t help but marvel at his brother’s courage and that of his other companions, even including the mad Waresh. They’d truly had some stones, to come here and do battle with a wyrm and tribes of orc and goblin scum with a mere dozen stout-hearted dwarves.
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