by David Adams
“Then we have both seen the tomb Arna’s Forge has become. The city is empty of all but ghosts now. We buried the dead, after making certain they would not rise to serve the enemy. Hard, foul work it was. The stain will never leave my soul.” He drifted away for a moment, lost in his own thoughts. Suddenly he eyed the two men again, looking as if he had forgotten they were there. “With all respect, who are you and what business are you about?”
“No offense taken,” Demetrius said. “These are dark days and foul things prowl the land. I am Demetrius, and this is Corson. We served under King Rodaan, and still serve Corindor. We are heading there now to find our people.”
“I hope what you find is less filled with sorrow than what we encountered at Arna’s Forge. I am Gellan, a free dwarf, if you take my meaning.”
“I’m not sure I do.”
“My companions and I serve no king. Meldros had our fealty, but he was too self-absorbed, too isolated, and too confident in his walls. Many of us marched through deep underground passages when the Legion advanced, knowing we had to strike them in the flank and rear as they assaulted the city. But a second army fought us in the Garden Valley, and although we felled more than we lost, Arna’s Forge was taken before we could arrive to aid her.”
“Not that it mattered,” another dwarf said to Gellan. “The army Solek used against the Forge was immense. Our presence would not have changed the battle’s outcome.”
Gellan agreed. “But if not for Meldros’ stubbornness, more would have escaped or come to fight with us. Now only a small remnant of our people remains.”
“How small?”
“A thousand perhaps. We are gathering what strength we have left while we bury the dead and fight the creatures that haunt these lands. If you have come from the north, you may understand what I mean.”
Demetrius nodded. “Several days ago a large insect-like thing attacked us. Tried to get the horses. I think I might have cracked its shell with a blow from my sword. It had tracked us for days, but we’ve not seen it since.”
“ ‘Doss-vala’ we call them. ‘Armor bugs.’ Dangerous if they find you unaware, or if they are many.”
“Then they are known in these parts?”
Gellan shook his head. “Not until after the Dead had passed through. We have killed many, and lost a few good dwarves to them as well. I only wish they were the worst thing I had seen in the open since the Dead fouled our world.”
Demetrius and Corson exchanged a glance but said nothing.
Gellan quizzed them again. “What business did you have up north?”
“We were traveling with a larger party, on a quest to defeat Solek. Our journey brought us to the far north of Lorgras, from where we needed to make our way home. That is how we come to pass through this region.”
“Was your quest a failure, or is it simply unfinished?”
“Unfinished. We prepare to raise what arms we can to fight Solek directly, now that we are near completion.”
The man and the dwarf studied one another for a moment before Gellan spoke. “I, for one, would like to hear of this quest. My axe screams out for vengeance, and would like nothing better than to hack into Solek’s forces again.” There was a general rumbling of agreement in the crowd of dwarves.
“Is it safe to speak?” asked Corson. “The enemy has many spies.”
“As safe as anywhere, and safer than some places for certain.” The dwarves drew in close to Demetrius and sat in the grass to hear the tale.
A long time later the story was complete. The dwarves only interrupted on a few occasions to seek clarity around a certain event or point, and Corson added a few details he thought proper not to have left out. Demetrius never considered himself much of a storyteller, but he took great care with this tale. The possibility of new allies was a great motivator.
“So the Sphere moves toward Solek,” Gellan said, repeating what he had heard. “Dangerous, but maybe wise. He would think you would keep it far from his clutching hand.”
“Perhaps, but he knows that eventually we need to bring it to him, if we are to capture the final shard and then use the completed Sphere against him. If he so chooses, he can simply bide his time until we bring it to him. He need not search for it any longer.”
“That is so. But I’ve never known Solek to be a patient sort, although anyone can change, even one as foul as he.” Gellan stood, holding his axe before him as if he was presenting a gift. “I would be honored to fight by your side when the time comes.” Many other dwarves called out similar sentiments.
“We would be honored as well, and most grateful,” Demetrius replied. “Gellan, do you now lead your people?”
Gellan laughed. “I talk and ask questions on their behalf, but I command only Gellan. I will join in this coming battle, as will many others, but I cannot order my people to war, nor assume command of our host unless the warriors participating ask it of me. There is yet time to prepare. We will have battle chiefs when the day arrives.”
“I can ask no more,” Demetrius said, adding a small bow. “As you have gathered from my tale, I do not lead in Corindor. Actually, I do not know who does.”
Gellan met his questioning look. “I’m sorry, Demetrius. I’ve heard little news from the south. I don’t know what you will find when you return.”
“Hopefully a people whose will to fight is still intact.”
“I wish you well. You will be away at break of day?”
Demetrius said that it was so. “We cannot tarry.”
“Of course. But we might offer food and drink for you and your beasts, and a makeshift shelter and bed. Our camp is close by.”
“We would be pleased to partake of your hospitality.”
They enjoyed a hot meal and a warming drink, and although they did not find a real bed waiting for them, the straw mats and cloth tents made for a more pleasant rest than what they had grown accustomed to. Demetrius felt at ease and went to sleep with the barest hint of a smile playing on his lips, knowing they had stumbled upon an ally that would serve well when they tangled with Solek’s troops.
* * *
They had debated, briefly, whether to chance Arna’s Forge again, and decided for the sake of the boy they would see if any aid might be gained there. They had traveled rapidly since the demon dogs’ attack, trying to outdistance their pursuers and race Rande to some kind of help. The injured horse had not been able to keep up, and it had likely turned back toward home or been overtaken by the dogs. They were down to three mounts for the four of them, but Rande could not ride alone, so the number sufficed. The horses, as always, pushed on tirelessly.
Tala had hoped her people might be able to heal Rande’s wound, but the Eastern Forest was at least a week away even if they pushed the horses to exhaustion, and Rande did not look as if he had a week left in him.
The boy’s color was a sickly pale green. He slept most of the time, which relieved his pain and anguish. When awake, he said little, and took no food. Perspiration beaded on his head no matter how cool the air.
Rowan prayed over him and made a poultice to try to draw some of the poison from the wound, but the edges of the bite had turned black, and vile-smelling yellow fluid seeped from it continually. Rande allowed Rowan to work the wound as needed, but he refused to look at it himself.
When Arna’s Forge came into view, Tala and Jazda charged ahead to look for help, while Rowan, holding onto Rande, continued along the path that would lead beyond the city and allow them to turn east once they had cleared the Aetos Mountains. He checked behind frequently, seeing nothing but the grass stirred by an early spring breeze and the shadow of the Great Northern Forest beyond. The dogs had not shown themselves, and likely could not keep pace with the horses, but Rowan did not doubt the noses of the hell-spawned creatures—if they wanted to follow they could.
Twenty minutes later Tala and Jazda returned. Rowan could tell from their drawn expressions that they could expect no help here.
“Empty,” Tala
reported. “Not just of the living. The dead are gone as well.”
“So either someone buried them…”
“Or Solek is using them.”
“One brings hope, the other despair.”
“If they have been buried,” said Tala, “it is likely that they are now under the mountain. But we have no time to search further.”
“Agreed. We need to keep pressing on.” His gaze dropped to the boy he held before him on the horse.
“Let’s move then,” Jazda said. He charged off, leading the way despite the fact he did not know where he was going. The sea he knew, but these strange lands were a mystery to him. The others raced to catch up.
They rode well past dark, only stopping because they knew Rande and the horses needed some rest. They camped in the foothills of the mountains, finding a small cluster of trees in which to shelter. They built a fire each night regardless of the danger. Even when placed near it, Rande shivered uncontrollably. They took turns sitting with him, placing wet strips of cloth on his fevered brow.
That night sparse, wind-driven clouds passed before the moon, their shadows dancing on the earth below. At about two a.m. Rowan was keeping watch over the camp and Tala over Rande. Jazda tossed and turned, getting little value out of his time to sleep. A racking cough shook Rande, and the boy sat up to spit out some phlegm. He fell back to the ground and stared up at the sky.
“Is it there?” he asked in a voice no stronger than a whisper.
Tala drew near. “What?”
“This heaven Rowan speaks of.”
“I do not know.”
“It is time for me to find out.” His gaze fell to behold the elf, and a bitter smile danced on his lips. “I told you I wouldn’t be seeing old age.”
Tala had no reply, and simply sat holding his ice-cold hand. He let out one long, ragged breath, then the rise and fall of his chest stilled. His eyes he had lifted one last time to behold the stars, but they remained open in an empty stare. Gently, Tala closed Rande’s eyelids.
“He is gone,” she said softly. The men walked over to kneel beside him.
“At least he suffers no longer,” said Rowan.
Jazda nodded but could not speak. Tears rolled down his cheeks and he bit his lip, trying not to sob.
They each mourned in their own way for a time, then Rowan said a few quiet words to Tala. The elf went to Jazda and took his arm. “Rowan will bury him,” she said. “We should see to the horses.”
“No, it is my responsibility. He was my charge, and his death is my pain and shame.”
“There was nothing any of us could have done. But we can see that he rests in peace now.”
“Please, Jazda,” said Rowan. “You were close to him. Let me do this.”
“You are right to say we were close. He was like a son to me. That is why I must do it.”
Rowan lowered his eyes and backed away while Jazda took the sword Rowan offered. “I’m sorry,” Jazda said to Rande’s still form as he lined the blade up across his neck. “I’m sorry for how hard your life was, and how hard your death was. But you can rest now. Forever.” Slowly he lifted the sword, then brought it sharply down.
Chapter 3: Shadows and Shadowlands
Lucien and Alexis traveled most of the night to put as much distance between themselves and the goblin battle as possible before they rested. A little before dawn they came to a rocky overhang, not quite a cave, but enough to shelter them from wandering eyes. To the west they could see other small formations of rock, and hills were apparent in the distance. They had reached the edge of the Great Plain. They rested for a while, dozing a bit but not really sleeping, then, seeing the sun rising in the sky, took a small bite of food and pressed on.
They moved southwest, and as they did so the ground grew rocky and the soil more coarse. Whereas the Westerland was fertile, the goblin lands were more difficult to work for raising crops or animals. It was done, to be sure, but the goblins as a whole were hunters and warriors, and parties often traveled well south, north, or west to hunt game. To the east the land of men seemed a paradise, and in the past there had been open war between goblins and men, but now each kept mostly to their own lands and lived with an uneasy, informal peace. There was little trust, but at least there was no longer open aggression. Lucien often wondered what would happen when the game became scarcer, and hungry goblin eyes turned east once again. He could picture scenarios where he would have met Alexis or any of the others on a field of battle, and where the struggle to the death would have been against them rather than with them.
They found a dirt path that had not been used for some time. Sparse vegetation had started to cover it up, but it was still easy enough to track and it went in the right direction, and as tired as the riders were, it gave the horses a simple line to follow so their riders could let their thoughts drift elsewhere.
They plodded on past noon, a hot sun rising in the cloudless sky and making them drowsy in the saddle. Every so often a light breeze gently wafted by, pushing aside the closeness of a warm afternoon and teasing them with the subtle fragrance of newly blossoming spring flowers. But underneath there was a dark, wet smell, as of a deep, forgotten dwelling that had known death, a smell no flower’s scent could mask.
A distant rumble sounded, just on the threshold of perception. Lucien had closed his eyes, the swaying of his horse hypnotic. He had shaken sleep off several times already, but now he was falling deeper, deeper. The thunder in the distance sounded soothing, making him think of rain pattering off the roof while he dozed snug under a pile of blankets. Thunder…
Lucien’s eyes shot open and he was alert instantly. He scanned the horizon and saw what he expected—no sign of clouds at all. “Riders,” he said, swiveling his head, looking for a place they could go to ground. A small copse of trees several hundred yards to the right was not dense enough to hide them, and the hills here were shallow.
Alexis drew herself up tall in the saddle. If she was afraid, she did not show it. “Should we stay on as we are? Those trees will not hide us, and even if we want to flee, we cannot do so until we know what direction they come from.” The Plain was still visible to the east and clearly the riders were not there, but north, south, and west were all still possibilities.
“We stop and listen.”
They waited while the distant hooves grew louder. Finally, from the west, they saw the riders outlined against the horizon as they crested a hill. They rode swiftly, and more or less directly at them.
“If we run, must be east,” said Lucien.
Alexis shook her head. “It’s the wrong direction, and we will be easy to spot.”
“We go on. If they see us and want talk, we talk.”
“It might even be your pack.”
Lucien smiled his eerie goblin smile. “Our luck not that good.”
“Hasn’t been that bad either, all things considered.”
They rode on, casually, as if oblivious to the approaching riders. As they moved south, the riders continued for a time in a straight line, such that the intersection of the two groups’ paths would be well behind where Alexis and Lucien currently were. But just as they began to hope they would be missed, the riders turned and moved at them with renewed vigor.
Lucien reined in his horse. “Wait now.”
Alexis nodded and studied the approaching group. They numbered thirty or more, and they wore purple and green, rather than the black and red Lucien donned. “Do you recognize them?”
“Yes. They are Salesh.”
Alexis waited a time for more, but Lucien was unwilling to comment further without prodding. “Is that good or bad?”
“Not as good as hoped for. Maybe not as bad as I fear.” He turned to look at her. “If not want to give extra horses as gifts, send home now.”
“They are not mine to give.”
“Then send away, or they be taken. Horses we ride we might keep. Excess easier to take.”
Alexis whispered a few words to the four horses th
at were currently without riders. They paused for a second, looking from Alexis to the goblins riding toward them. Alexis spoke again, her tone more stern. The horses pivoted and raced away to the northeast. She had to check her own horse to keep him from following.
The riders were upon them two minutes later, encircling them despite the fact they had shown no interest in fleeing. Several goblins had warblades drawn, but most did not. Lucien took this as a good sign, but he noted several archers in the group as well. Even if he believed the Lorgrasian horses superior to those of the goblins—and he did—he knew if they tried to race away they would likely earn arrows in their backs for the attempt.
Lucien’s eyes settled quickly on the largest of the goblins. This one was nearly his size, but not quite. He could tell the goblin measured him as well. This large goblin finally spoke a few words to him in their own tongue.
“I am Lucien in common tongue,” Lucien said. “This Alexis.”
The large goblin smiled. “You speak common language for guest? I will also. Are you lost?”
“Travel to find pack.”
“Is woman hostage?”
“No. Sister-in-arms.”
The goblin studied Alexis. “Lorgrasian?”
“Yes,” Alexis replied.
“I wonder if you prisoner, and he say not to speak. We do you no harm here. I not interested in trouble with humans. You go if you want.”
“I travel with Lucien freely,” Alexis replied. “I will stay.”
The goblin shrugged. “You spy, Lucien?”
“I have been many things, but never spy.”
“Then why out here, so far from pack, traveling with Lorgrasian female?”
“Was sent to treat with humans, to join forces against Dark One.”
“Who sent you to do this?”
“Durst. My chief.”
“He presumes to speak for all goblins?”
“He speaks for own pack.”
“And what of others with you?”
“There were no others.”
The big goblin turned to one of his bowmen. “Horses riderless,” the bowman confirmed.
