Though at first the encounter looked to be nothing of import, Linaya watched as a large brown-haired dwarf extracted himself from the milling crowd and stood directly in the three companions’ path with a smile. Linaya imagined him a friend of Gumbi, or even perhaps an old friend of Zorbin. Sadly she realized all too soon she was mistaken.
As her companions approached the dwarf who blocked their path, they slowed and instinctively Linaya fell back a pace. Something about Zorbin, directly in front of her, had changed. Something in the way he carried his weight, his natural demeanor, altered from one second to the next. The dwarf that opposed them scowled, spewing something in the dwarven tongue before jutting a finger towards Zorbin. Zorbin began a response, but the dwarf before them cut him short, shouting unintelligible words, though his meaning was clear. When the brown-bearded opposition stopped shouting, he looked first to Linaya, then back to Zorbin, and then proceeded to do the unthinkable. For reasons unknown to Linaya, the dwarf that stood in their path thrust back his shoulders and spat in Zorbin’s face. The ensuing moments Linaya would recall for all her days, as a city of pride and peace suddenly became a battleground of pain and prejudice.
*****
Zorbin knew there were many in the city who would not look upon him kindly. Fact was, it was expected. Most who knew him, or even of him, considered him a traitor to their race. Honor was a part of dwarven culture, however, and as such Zorbin did not think he would find any major moments of contention within Boulder Gate. So it was that as he and Gumbi discussed current happenings within the city that he was surprised when Drummit stepped out from the crowd directly in front of him. He had anticipated seeing his cousin at some point, but not this early in their stay within the city. He had foreseen his cousin’s anger, but what he actually received was something out of the scope of Zorbin’s imagination.
“You do not belong here!” Drummit shouted in the dwarven tongue.
“I am here on business my…” Zorbin began before his cousin cut him off.
“You bring your human whore and parade about the city like a returning king, yet you are a traitor to us all!”
If his words were not enough, Drummit Ironfist, Zorbin’s own kin, spat upon him out of disgust. Such were the ways of dwarves that it was ingrained into each member of the society to respect all others, especially your elders. So honorable was the society that windows and doors had no locks, yet here Drummit ignored all he had been taught and everyone who witnessed his action was offended. As his relative, it was Zorbin who was accountable for Drummit’s behavior, even if he was also the recipient of the assault. A crowd gathered within seconds waiting to see just how the outcast dwarf would discipline his younger kin.
Zorbin did not hesitate. Stepping forward to close the distance between himself and his angered cousin, he raised his hand and backhanded the younger dwarf. Drummit did not so much as flinch. Though Zorbin’s strike landed true, and split Drummit’s bulbous nose sending blood to cascade down the dwarf’s brown beard and spray into his face, he showed no sign of realizing he was injured.
Instead Drummit did the unexpected again, and tilting back his head he closed his eyes and began to speak in a low monotone. Everyone in the crowd realized what he was doing, and before any could react, Drummit raised his hands to the heavens and a massive black hammer formed within them out of strands of rainbow-hued light. Before the hammer had even solidified completely Drummit brought it to bear, swinging it down over his head to strike Zorbin in a single blow. Fortunately for Zorbin, he had been trained to fight by the best Valdadore had to offer, and without thought he reacted by diving to the side and rolling back to his feet. Drummit’s hammer met the stone of the road with a crushing sound just as Zorbin exploded in size, calling upon his own blessing.
All of those among the dwarven race who prayed to Ximlin were awarded a blessing. All of those blessings had to do with their culture. Some were blessed with the ability to carve stone to perfection. Others were blessed with unbelievable strength in order to hammer and chisel through the mountains that made their homes. Every blessing given by Ximlin lent itself in some way to dwarven society, yet even so, some blessings could be used in battle as well. Drummit, it appeared, had received such a blessing. Though at the time that Zorbin was exiled his young cousin was yet unblessed, now he had been bestowed with not only strength, but also the ability to summon a magical hammer of some sort. Zorbin knew not his cousin’s limitations. However, neither did his cousin know Zorbin’s.
Zorbin found himself in a predicament as he dodged Drummit’s first blow and rolled to his feet again. For every offense his young cousin committed it was Zorbin’s duty to punish him, as his elder, to a further extent than was his crime. It was the only fault to dwarven culture really. For now that the fight had begun, the only way it could end was if the younger opponent took his punishment and relented, or the two traded blows until one was destroyed. The Ironfist family was not known for relenting to anything. Zorbin knew immediately that in order to complete his mission, he would have to kill his own cousin. The thought saddened him, but it was his duty, both to his king, and to his people. Zorbin steeled his resolve and called upon Gorandor. Pulling his battle hammer from his back the giant of a dwarf sworn to a human kingdom charged a blessed opponent not only of his own race, but of his own bloodline.
Though Drummit appeared the underdog in the fight, being incredibly smaller than his blessed foe, the fact was that for the most part the two dwarven opponents were near equal. Where Zorbin had experience swinging his axe in battle, Drummit had experience swinging his hammer in the mines. Where Zorbin had increased strength and size, Drummit had a magically summoned hammer that served two amazing purposes. The flat face of the hammer was made to smash and it also amplified its wielder’s force by tenfold, allowing the head to leave an impression a foot square in solid granite. The tapered end was designed to split stone in a single blow. Likely the first blow of the battle that landed would also be the last.
Charging his opponent, Zorbin was careful not to trample any innocent bystanders for fear of retribution. Unfortunately the caution cost him speed and when he finally came within striking range Drummit was ready for him. Both dwarven warriors squared off and swung their weapons. With his superior range, due to his blessing, Zorbin knew he had the upper hand and watched as his hammer arced through the air to crush his young cousin. Drummit swung his luminescent gossamer hammer as well, but not at Zorbin as those watching would expect. Instead he swung to deflect the giant dwarf’s blow.
The heads of both hammers met with unnatural force, causing an outcome that none had foreseen. Zorbin’s hands immediately went numb from the reverberations that climbed the handle of his weapon. Beyond that, nearly all gathered grasped at their ears, overcome by immense pain from the sound that resounded from the blow. The sound was like metal shattering, and many of those that were the closest now bled from their ears. Those however were only the minor results from the impact.
Upon impact, Drummit’s magical hammer had shattered Zorbin’s giant metal battle hammer sending large metal shards and shrapnel in all directions, the most immediately apparent piece of which found itself buried in Drummit’s own face. Just below the dwarf’s left eye protruded a wide piece of metal that tapered near its point of entry into his face. The eyeball above the wound had rolled backwards and now moved lazily, staring blankly towards the ceiling. Blood dripped freely from the corner of Drummit’s mouth as well as his nose.
Drummit remained standing for an unnaturally long time before finally his jaw muscles relaxed and released a deluge of blood. Then, as if finally overcome, his muscles seemed to spasm and Drummit collapsed to the stone road with the accompanying sound of the crowd’s combined sigh of disbelief. Others watching the battle had sustained minor injuries, the worst of which was a dismembered ear. Zorbin knew not what the consequences might be for killing Drummit, though he felt no shame in the act.
Not only had he been provoked, but he had
been attacked. It had not been his wish to kill his fellow dwarf, but his duty. However, it was yet unclear if Zorbin would be treated as a dwarf in this matter, under the direction of dwarven culture and beliefs, or as an outsider who had murdered a dwarf in good standing within the kingdom. By killing Drummit it was likely that Zorbin had ruined any hopes of obtaining the dwarven kingdom’s aid.
Unable to contain his emotions, Zorbin stomped about the scene of the brief battle mumbling angrily and shaking his head. For many long moments the gathered crowd simply watched him, and made way for him if he came near. Apparently no one in the crowd knew how to treat the situation either. Zorbin stopped.
Looking around the crowd, he realized there were several present who were his senior yet none had stepped forward to verbally berate him let alone pass any other judgment upon him. Perhaps none here recognized him. Zorbin, not knowing what else to do, looked to his old friend Gumbi for the answers.
“I know what yer thinkin,” Gumbi said before Zorbin could even formulate his question. “Should yer actions become questionable I will defend them.”
“What do you suppose we do now?” Zorbin asked.
Both men looked to the horror-stricken Linaya whom they had temporarily forgotten about, and seeing her obvious disapproval Gumbi turned and pointed to a young dwarf in the crowd.
“Go and fetch a priest,” Gumbi ordered the boy, before gesturing to another young dwarf. “You go to the office of the council and tell them that Drummit Ironfist disrespected and attacked Zorbin Ironfist, the outcast of the same house, and was killed.” Then turning as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred at all, Gumbi began to stroll down the road once more. Zorbin, taking his cue, motioned for Linaya to follow before striding off after Gumbi. Again the three walked down the busy street but now none of them spoke, each dealing with their own inner turmoil.
For more than an hour they walked on in silence as the center of the dwarven city grew nearer and nearer. Though Zorbin had many fond memories here in the home of his ancestors, they felt further and further away with every step he took. He was already an outcast to his kind, having shunned their traditions and beliefs. He wondered if he was even considered a dwarf any longer by those of his race. If not, then he was not only a traitor, but now a murderer as well. Whichever the case, he would know for certain in the hours to come.
Looming before the trio stood the central building in the vast dwarven city. Here was not only the residence of the king, but also the nerve center of the entire dwarven nation. Life-size statues of past kings surrounded the building and upon the outer wall the history of each and every dwarven ruler was depicted by a series of engraved scenes that read much like a child’s story book. Both Zorbin and Gumbi paused out of respect outside the main entry. Though the wide-arched doorway stood open, the pair of dwarves each dropped to a knee in front of the portal before rising to their feet once more. Linaya, as was becoming her custom, stared intently at the carvings trying to make sense of them all. Dwarves all knew the histories of each monarch. The carvings simply stood as a reminder that here the dwarven nation was ruled, in the same place it was once created.
Chapter Ten
Seth had been slaughtering common troops by the multitude now for what felt like hours. He dared not hazard a guess as to how many lives he alone had ended this very morning. Each life was precious, yet at present, sparing them was not much of an option if he wanted his home, and those he loved, to survive.
In the days past, and this very morning, Seth had lost innumerable soldiers. Both his blessed and unblessed troops had fallen in battle, filling him with their power and expanding both his mind and abilities. Seth felt vast power coursing through him, so much so that now when siphoning the lives of hundreds at a time he felt no pleasure from it. It was as if he had built a tolerance to the euphoric effect the power had within him, yet he still longed to feel it anew. Like an addict, Seth realized he simply needed a higher dose, but dared not reach too far and consume too many lives at once. He alone was aware of the consequences of straining his abilities. Instead he sought out a stronger drug. Those blessed by the gods still brought him pleasure, and presently there appeared to be an abundance to be had.
Seth steeled his resolve, tearing his focus away from the form of his retreating wife and troops. Exhaling loudly, Seth sought those who concentrated their powers in an attempt to destroy Valdadore. Reaching out with his vast consciousness Seth could locate them all quite easily. Over four hundred mages sworn to Sigrant had worked their way into the battle without detection. Now, however, as they began to pray and call upon their blessings, Seth found them. With his mouth watering, and heart hammering in anticipation, Seth reached out to the mages nearest him. Just weeks ago a single blessed opponent had been a challenge to strip of his power. Now he had grown and Seth felt comfortable grasping at the swelling lives of near a dozen blessed mages, and latching onto their magical umbilicals.
Bracing himself both mentally and physically he tore away all twelve auras, pulling them into himself and luxuriated in the bliss that followed. For a moment the umbilicals remained attached and Seth’s reserve became bloated with the power of foreign gods. His body spasmed in ecstasy. Shaking his head to clear it, Seth located his next targets and unleashed thirty unnatural blue-green fireballs incinerating even more would-be wizards.
Thrilled to yet again be infused with power and pleasure, Seth sought those he would next siphon from. He decided to up the ante slightly and test his increased abilities. A fraction of a second later another fifteen mages vanished into piles of ash, trampled upon by their own comrades. Naught but their belongings remained. Seth fought the urge to moan as again his body was momentarily wracked by pleasurable fits. A smile dared creep across his lips, and for it he felt guilty. All life was precious and valuable.
Trying to focus himself again Seth used his vision of the gods and immediately threw up a protective barrier of pure energy. Magical attacks by the hundreds were being flung from all corners of the battlefield. Lightning, fire, ice, magically summoned stone and wind lanced at him, and even things Seth could not recognize. Seth braced himself, unsure of his ever changing limitations. One on one Seth knew he could stand before any mage upon the field and be his better. Yet even Seth was unsure if he could withstand the onslaught of over three hundred mages at once.
Already filled with stolen power, Seth hid behind his magical shield for the first round of attacks. The entire battleground seemed to take on an eerie silence as magical fire roared and lightning snapped and crackled and then the attacks hit. Like a tidal wave crashing upon a shore, the attacks pummeled Seth’s shield. As they struck, great blasts of power exploded as pieces of Seth’s protective wall began to disintegrate beneath the assault. Everyone remotely near to Seth retreated for fear of being caught in the crossfire, for all knew that the death mage would not stand idly by and let these lesser mages harass him. Little did they realize, however, that Seth was tiring beneath the assault.
Though the onslaught came as a raging river of magical attacks washing over him, Seth prepared to do the unthinkable. With so many standing in opposition to him, his shield could not hold. It was thinning and tearing, and repair it as he could, Seth could not keep up. Though mightier than his foes man to man, together they could defeat him. Seth knew that if he did not even the odds, he and Valdadore would fall in the moments to come.
Seth dropped the magical shield for an instant and sought to absorb the maelstrom of attacks thrown at him. He took and contained hundreds without harm. Within moments the power within him began to fight him, seeking an escape. Seth continued to collect the power.
He was taking a risk since he knew full well that the outcome of such a gamble was unpredictable. History was proof enough of that. Even so, Seth absorbed the power until he felt as if he were bulging at the seams, ready to split from the strain. Instead of restoring his magical shield, bigger and better than before, Seth went on the offence.
Gathering
all of the stolen power he had acquired, and was still acquiring, Seth focused himself inwards as he had learned how to do months before. Raising his hands before him, palms out, he unleashed all of the power simultaneously.
In that instant, many upon the field of battle thought the world had ended. Such was the force of the magic Seth unleashed that it could not have been described as anything aside from unholy. Like the world itself was splitting in two a great splintering sound rent the air as the ground began to crack at Seth’s feet and widen as it exploded ahead towards the frozen lake a thousand yards away. Above the shattered ground a great whistling wind lent itself to the fray. So great was its force that men were torn from their feet and cast upon its currents, its tendrils stripping flesh from bones and bark from trees. Bodies rained down upon the ground like hail as those who fell into the great chasm in the ground screamed for what seemed an eternity before their sounds snuffed out.
The ground buckled and rolled and thousands were tossed from their feet and still Seth was not done. Just when everyone thought the end had come, a great blast of wicked green fire, a wall of evil inferno, blasted forth from Seth’s palms, roaring out in an expanding wave before him. Those who had somehow been spared by the great chasm or the deathly wind were now set ablaze by magical fire. Smoke and the scent of burnt flesh and hair filled the air as those set afire screamed their agonizing screams and wandered about blind until the flames consumed them.
The assault upon Seth had stopped momentarily. Sigrant’s remaining mages must have begun to second guess themselves. With the sudden expulsion of power Seth felt nauseated but otherwise unharmed. The forces of Sigrant were not so lucky. The direct attack from Seth had killed near fifteen thousand troops. Now, however, the newly formed lake that Garret and the wolfmen had created was draining into the great chasm caused by Seth’s spell. The sudden drop in the lake’s water level caused the ice upon the surface to begin breaking and pieces were beginning to buckle and heave, sending yet more of the invading forces to their graves.
The Champions Page 11
