by Mel Odom
Wick deftly avoided the question, though he had the feeling the master thief had asked it with the same skill he plied his trade with. “I don’t remember.” But the destination, he knew, had been Greydawn Moors. Wick’s own ancestors had come across on those ships, joining the Builders and the mages who labored frantically to create the Vault of All Known Knowledge.
“I see.” Brant’s response let Wick know the lie would go unchallenged, but that the master thief wouldn’t forget it either.
“The spells that destroyed the land created huge tidal waves that devastated most of the ships before they could be fully loaded. Many families of those warriors died in the Gentlewind Sea, in a harbor that became known—at least for a short time—as Innocents’ Despair. The rest of the families,” Wick’s voice tightened for a moment and his words were strained, “stood helpless before the butchery of Lord Kharrion’s goblin horde after the last of their warriors had fallen. Every last woman and child was cut down by the bloody axes and claws and fangs of the goblinkin.”
The thunder rolled again in the distance, and this time Wick thought he could see a dark smudge along the mountain ridges to the south.
“The armies of Hanged Elf’s—” Hamual stopped himself. “The armies of Dream knew the Western Empire army fell?”
“Yes,” the little librarian went on grimly. “Although the goblinkin losses were substantial as well, their numbers were far greater than any might have guessed.”
“Some of the tales I’ve heard,” Brant said, “suggest that Lord Kharrion rested for a time after that battle, and that he used more spells to raise an undead army from the fallen goblins.”
“The Boneblights,” Wick replied. “Lord Kharrion did raise them then.”
“Dead goblinkin?” Hamual asked incredulously. “They didn’t quit serving him even in death?”
“By that time,” Wick said, peering over the decline ahead that bridged an even more narrow ledge, “Lord Kharrion’s mastery of whatever dark arts he’d won over to his side had grown much greater. Even death was no longer a barrier.”
Seeing Wick’s discomfort at going along the narrow ledge, Sonne urged her horse forward, then grabbed the bridle of the little librarian’s horse. Her mount clattered down onto the ledge in a spray of loose rock that had Wick’s stomach turning flips. The little librarian held onto the saddle pommel with both hands and tried not to let his words sound terribly strained.
“Lord Kharrion sacrificed the last of the women and children from his attacks then,” Wick said. “He tortured his victims, and used his vile arcane knowledge to bind their pain and anger to the corpses of his goblin troops and marched them once more south along the coast. He also called in the Embyrs, the nine daughters of King Amalryn who the Goblin Lord had changed into conscienceless creatures who lived only to kill and destroy under his orders.”
“The daughters of a king?” Sonne repeated.
“Yes,” Wick said. “When Cloud Heights fell, which was the heart of the Western Empire, King Amalryn, his queen, and his sons were executed. But the daughters were transformed into another weapon in the Goblin Lord’s arsenal.”
“These were young women?” Sonne asked.
“Some of them,” Wick replied, remembering the Embyr he’d confronted aboard One-Eyed Peggie. “Others were children, just babes.”
Sonne cursed then, and Wick knew the deep-seated anger and revulsion she vented came from some part of her as well. “Children should never be used for evil ends.”
“Lord Kharrion did it for that purpose,” Wick said. “And the Goblin Lord let it be known how those fierce, burning Embyrs had come to be. Those warriors that fought them couldn’t help remembering the precious faces of the great elven king’s daughters. Even if those warriors had somehow found a way to destroy the Embyrs, no one would have harmed them.”
“Dream knew this was the army they faced?” Cobner asked.
“Yes,” Wick said. He leaned into the saddle as Sonne led him up the other side of the narrow ledge where the terrain seemed a little safer. His wound still ached.
“They didn’t run, didn’t falter?”
“No,” Wick said.
“Well,” Cobner said proudly, “there must have been some Iron Hammer Peaks dwarves among them.”
“Yes,” the little librarian replied. “Since the beginning of Dream there had always been Iron Hammer Peaks dwarves among the citizens of Dream. Who do you think built those once-great buildings that you’ve seen there?”
“I had no doubt that it couldn’t be anything but dwarven-made.”
“The dragon,” Brant reminded. “You’ve talked for a very long time, little artist, and the Purple Cloaks haven’t faltered from their pursuit either.”
Wick glanced over his shoulder. However, at the moment he saw nothing of the Purple Cloaks, though he was certain the master thief had been watching for them and had probably marked their location. “Lord Kharrion assembled his new army, reinvigorated by the Boneblights he’d raised, and he marched on Dream. As he neared the great city, he realized that Dream had escaped the rising waters and yet held together. Still standing as it was, the city promised a possible grinding campaign that would wear away at even the number of goblinkin he commanded, and it would allow the few remaining areas that he hadn’t yet attacked to further shore up their defenses. He contacted spies inside Dream.”
“Who?” Cobner demanded.
“In all the books I have read,” Wick admitted, “the men that betrayed Dream were never mentioned by name or in any fashion that might serve to identify them.”
Cobner cursed them as only an incensed dwarf might, and his booming voice was swallowed up in the crash of thunder that sounded even closer.
Wick surveyed the southern horizon again, feeling heartened by the forbidding, black smoky color staining the sky. “The leaders of Dream had a plan to flank Lord Kharrion’s army as they came from the north along the Shattered Coast. As the goblin horde advanced, troops were sent out into Bliss Arobor. They were given orders to join the Iron Hammer Peaks dwarves in a flanking maneuver designed to turn Lord Kharrion’s army in on itself. There in the forest of Bliss Arobor, confusion was believed to be the greatest weapon the humans, elves, and dwarves had. The commanders at Dream were convinced that the goblinkin would overreact in the shadows of the forest where all manner of creatures fought against them under the leadership of the elven warders. Given the ferocious and uncivilized nature of goblinkin, and the fact that they were from different tribes that had warred with each other in the past, it was believed that the horde would turn on itself in confusion and wreak havoc among its own forces before they knew it was each other they fought. When that happened, the forces of Dream would launch another attack from that direction. They believed that Lord Kharrion’s goblin horde would break and stall there, and be unable to regain momentum.”
“It was a good plan,” Cobner declared. “Did it work?”
“It never had the chance,” Wick said. “Before the goblin horde reached Bliss Arobor, Lord Kharrion contacted Shengharck and made a bargain with the dragon.”
“What bargain?” Lago asked.
“Through his spies in Dream, Lord Kharrion had learned of the campaign that would be used against him. His bargain with Shengharck ceded the dragon rights to the Iron Hammer Peaks.”
“Those rights weren’t the Goblin Lord’s to give,” Sonne said.
“If he conquered Dream,” Wick said, “they were Lord Kharrion’s rights to give. And with Shengharck’s help, the Goblin Lord destroyed the flanking move that had formed in the Iron Hammer Peaks. The Dragon King flew in from the north, catching unaware the dwarven, human, and elven warriors gathered there. Shengharck descended upon them, breathing flames and rending with his great and terrible claws. The human, elven, and dwarven ranks held only for a moment. Their arrows and spears broke against the great dragon’s impenetrable scales. Even the powerful mages among them couldn’t halt Shengharck. Then the line gave way
as Shengharck continued his attacks. Before the warriors had a chance to save themselves, Lord Kharrion’s troops deployed from the edge of Bliss Arobor and marched into the foothills. The goblinkin ambushed the warriors at Dharl’s Pass and there they died to a man.”
The last of the little librarian’s words rang against the mountains for just a moment before the next roll of thunder swallowed them. A startling silence followed.
“The Iron Hammer Peaks dwarven clan didn’t come back because of the dragon?” Cobner asked.
“Yes,” Wick said, watching Sonne as she guided him toward the next incline. Loose rock tumbled from under her mount’s hooves and rattled over the edge of the drop to their right. “Shengharck settled in the Iron Hammer Peaks during the rest of Lord Kharrion’s assault on Dream. Every attempt made by the dwarves to return there ended only in death.”
“What happened to Dream?” Hamual asked.
“It fell,” Wick answered. “At least, that’s what everyone agrees happened. You’ve seen the city for yourself. If the goblins are there, it had to have fallen. Either then or later.”
“Who is everyone?” Brant asked. “The everyone that agrees with you?”
Wick hesitated, not certain how to answer the question. “Friends.”
“Fellow readers?”
That’s safe enough, Wick thought, isn’t it? “Yes.”
“What happened to Shengharck?” Sonne asked.
Rolling thunder filled the air around them again. This time the vibrations coursing through the ground were so strong a small avalanche of rock and debris started high up on the mountain and tumbled down around them. Stones and foggy dirt slithered through the horses’ legs, then rose up in dry, choking clouds.
Wick put a hand over his mouth and coughed so hard he thought his head would explode. His eyes watered from the grit that filled them. He shifted to stay in the saddle as his horse shied in terror beneath him, stumbling dangerously close to the ledge and the long drop beyond. Gradually, the dust subsided and the sound of falling rock drifted away over the trees.
Carefully, Sonne started her horse forward again, pulling Wick’s mount after hers. Loose stones clattered over the edge from the hooves.
“Shengharck remained within the Iron Hammer Peaks,” Wick said. “According to the tales I’ve read, none of those who attempted to flee from Dream over the mountains ever made it to the other side. Armies that attempted to mass either within Bliss Arobor or along the foothills of the mountains met only disaster and death when Shengharck flew among them. Lord Kharrion’s flank remained protected throughout Dream’s Ending.”
“What happened then?” Hamual said.
“No one knows for sure,” Wick replied. He, like all the other librarians before him at the Vault, and some after, had combed references in reports Grandmagister Ludaan had sought out. Thinking back on the mysterious package that had taken him down to the Yondering Docks in Greydawn Moors now, Wick thought he might inquire further into the new Grandmagister’s requirements for Novices. If I ever return to the Library. “But it was documented in several sources that Shengharck remained within the Iron Hammer Peaks even after Lord Kharrion’s war was finally ended.”
“The dragon lives within the mountains?” Karick asked.
“Yes,” Wick said. He noticed the hesitation in the faces of his companions. “But it’s a big mountain, and there are a number of mine shafts. I’d say our chances of actually meeting Shengharck are very remote.”
“Where did the dragon choose to live?” Hamual asked.
“Near the center of the Iron Hammer Peaks.” Wick gazed at the smoky ridge clinging to the skyline. “It was there that the Iron Hammer Peaks dwarven clan had punched tunnels through the mountain. Shengharck liked the location because he had a back exit from his new lair and could be in the sky and attacking within minutes without anyone being the wiser. He hunted on either side of the mountain range.”
“You say there are dozens of mine shafts?” Lago asked.
Wick nodded.
“How will you know which mine shafts will lead through the mountain range and which are dead ends or collapsed tunnels?”
“The Iron Hammer Peaks dwarves kept very good records of their tunneling,” Wick answered. Awfully dry, straightforward reading, though. “Each mine shaft was said to be marked.”
“Marked in what way?”
“The dwarven miners wrote where each tunnel ended,” Wick said.
“In the human language?” Baldarn asked, looking very suspicious of the whole story.
“No,” Wick said. “In one of the dwarven languages prevalent in this area.”
“The dwarves had a written language?” Lago asked quietly.
“Yes.” Wick stood up in the stirrups as Sonne led his horse down a steep decline. “They had several, though many of the clans shared an abbreviated common language.”
“And you read dwarven?” Baldarn asked with a sneer.
“Quite well,” Wick said. “The Steelringer clan near Mardath Falls believed that making hard steel required song as well as heat and the unyielding strength of a blacksmith’s arm.”
“They sang while they worked the metal?” Cobner asked in fascination.
“Yes,” Wick said. “Several of their songs still survive.”
“I’ve been told I’ve got a fine singing voice,” Cobner offered. “I’d like very much to learn some of these songs, little warrior.”
For a moment, fear touched Wick’s heart when he thought of teaching the big, fierce dwarf some of the Steelringer clan songs. Is there anything in those songs that the Library is oathbound to protect? He couldn’t remember, but he didn’t think so. Generally, the Steelringer songs were about the craft and the beauty of the things their ringing hammers had forged on fire-hardened anvils. “When the time presents itself, Cobner, I’d be very happy to teach you some of the songs that I know.”
“How is it you come to know how to read dwarven languages?” Baldarn demanded.
“I was taught,” Wick answered.
“By who? Dwarves?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
Wick thought quickly, not believing that the questions posed by his companions had to come now, when Fohmyn Mhout’s Purple Cloaks pursued them. How much longer will it be before one of them realizes that the Purple Cloaks may be chasing us because of the books I took from the hidden room? And what will they do if they do realize that? The little librarian glanced ahead, feeling the ground quiver again as another tremor shook the mountains. “My teachers.”
“And they weren’t dwarves?” Baldarn asked.
“No.”
“Then why—”
“Enough,” Brant called from the rear. “All this jabbering is giving me a headache, and the Purple Cloaks could be close enough soon to hear your voices carrying down the side of these mountains.”
Feeling momentarily relieved, Wick glanced back at the master thief. Brant’s cold black eyes regarded the little librarian flatly. A chill flooded Wick. Brant knows I’m hiding something! That’s why he stopped them from questioning me! The relief faded at once. The little librarian knew how exacting the master thief could be when faced with a secret. Resolutely, Wick turned his attention back to the mountains ahead as Sonne continued leading his horse.
Little more than an hour later, Brant declared the terrain too treacherous to risk while riding. All of them climbed from their mounts and led their horses over the loose ground.
Wick peered behind them constantly, seeking some sign of the Purple Cloaks, convinced their relentless pursuers would appear at any moment. The pain of his wound increased for a time, then finally went nearly numb, only offering the occasional twinge. Maybe the herbs and mendicants Cobner had used during the night had finally proven effective, or perhaps it wasn’t as bad as he’d first perceived.
Despite the fact that the walking became easier, the little librarian couldn’t quite keep up with the longer, stronger strides of the others.
In a short time, he was at the back of the fleeing group, and Brant was matching him stride for stride.
“There’s a place I’ve heard of,” the master thief stated quietly.
Wick walked with his head down, not wanting to make eye contact with the man.
“In nearly every town you visit,” Brant said, “there’s always talk of a mysterious Vault that was created during the Cataclysm.”
Wick remained silent, his breath tearing raggedly at the back of his throat.
“Now I’ve always figured that the Vault was another myth,” Brant went on. “There are plenty of myths regarding the Cataclysm about fantastic treasures that were hidden by humans, elves, and dwarves as the goblins razed their homelands. Every now and again, I hear the tale of some group or individual who claims to have found one of those lost treasures.”
A rock slipped from under Wick’s foot and he nearly fell. Before he lost his balance completely, Brant seized his arm and helped the little librarian keep upright.
“I’ve never believed those stories,” the master thief said. “And when I had occasion to question some of those treasure hunters—”
“To rob them, you mean?” Wick asked pointedly, wishing he had some way to stem the questions he knew were coming.
Brant grinned mirthlessly. “You do judge a man harshly, don’t you?”
Wick’s face flamed and he felt shamed. “I apologize.”
“There’s no need to, little artist,” Brant said after a moment. “I know what I am as surely as you do. Only I don’t paint as bleak a picture of it as you do. Those men that I questioned, they weren’t good men. They had no more right to that treasure than I did. And if I’d been able, and if they’d really had those treasures, I’d have taken them.”
“Why did you become—” Wick hesitated.
“A thief?” Brant’s amusement appeared honest.
The little librarian let out his breath, knowing there was no other way to answer the question other than honestly. “Yes.”
“I had no other choice.”
“There are always choices.”
