The Chosen - Rise of Cithria Part 1

by Kris Kramer

  Chapter 29

  Gruesome would have been impatient if the reason for their delay had been any one but the glorious general. The dwarf commanded much respect. Blade slept most of the day. The young priest looked like he was sick, but his spirits were up. The boy had shown his honor when he confronted the havtrol about calling him a necromancer. He had been right, after all. Gruesome only knew the rumors of Durum Tai, how could he judge their people? He knew what humans said about havtrols.

  Raising the dead did not sit well with him, but the boy said it was done to honor them. That confused the warrior. His people burned their honored dead on a pyre. They sent their souls and bodies to the gods. Dwarves carved the likenesses of their cherished ones in stone or gold, like they might forget their faces. The freemen of the Mark had no end of rituals for the dead. They might burn them and build a statue of them. So why not turn their hero’s bones into a puppet for their highest office?

  They spent the day in relative quiet. Pjodarr stayed by his master’s side. The girl stole glances at the priest, who tried his best to avoid looking at her. Gruesome was unsure if this was some form of human courtship or not. Most men were more aggressive in the presence of one such as Erliga. He assumed from the shaman’s words that she was a consort for her lord.

  Blade awoke as night began to fall. Pjodarr gave him plenty of water, more broth and some of the wyvern meat to chew.

  “Now, boy,” the dwarf said as he tossed aside the last bit of meat. “Ye have much to tell me.”

  “It seems I do, Master.” Pjodarr gestured at the rest of them. “Do you wish privacy?”

  “What, are ye going to tell me a secret?”

  The shaman shook his head sadly. “Hardly, Master.”

  “Then talk. Tell me about this,” Blade indicated the left side of his face. Only a hint of pink scars showed under the makeshift bandages.

  “You said you remembered the fire. And ash, yes?”

  The dwarf thought for a moment. “There is something else. Roaring, like a dragon. The whole world shook.”

  “Yes, yes it did.”

  Gruesome knew what the shaman had to tell his master. The destruction of his home. Tarac and the girl leaned in, for they were too young to remember the day the Great Mountain burned.

  Pjodarr closed his eyes. “I was in the var pens that night. You know how much I love being with them. My stomach had been bothering me for days, and I thought it was just some passing ailment. But they were upset, and I could not calm them. I think now they knew what Fjur had tried to warn me about.

  “Suddenly, the ground beneath my feet began to tremble. The walls of Northwatch cracked and the very earth bubbled. I ran to your chamber as fast as I could, and tried to keep the ground still. It was a futile effort, of course. By the time I reached your tower, fire was spewing from fissures. Black smoke choked the air. I bounded up the steps and crushed the wood of your doors. Part of the wall had caved in, and hit you on the head. You were bleeding and unconscious.”

  The shaman took a deep breath. “I healed you and led you to the door. That was when the tower fell. I could feel the fire all around us. I was hurt from the fall, but nothing too serious. I healed myself-,” he stopped as tears ran in rivers down his cheeks. “If I hadn’t done that, I would have gotten to you sooner, Master.”

  Blade held up a hand. “Or we both may have died. Continue.”

  “Your body was broken, but you still breathed. I pulled bricks and stone off you, then the fire came.” The old slave stared into the flames with bitter enmity; flames that brought warmth to them all and pushed the night’s darkness away, but also brought terrible memories to him. “I cannot call it fire, though. It was liquid and burned hotter than the forges of the Great City. When it ran over your face, it took all of my power to pull it from you. You screamed. I tried to heal you, but…I have never been the best.” He looked into the dwarf’s one eye. “Do you remember what you told me, Master?”

  The Lord of Northwatch’s coal-black eye never left his servant. “’This is not my death.’”

  Pjodarr nodded. “I knew it was a command. But you did die. In my arms, who swore to perish before you. It took me several hours to drag you to the soulstone.”

  Soulstones were powerful artifacts. Few existed in the Bergmark. Gruesome knew the dwarves held all but one of them in their great keeps, the last belonging to the High Lord of Freemark. They were deep magic, stolen from the Calderans and their goddess. The soulstones had the power to resurrect the dead, as long as their bodies were brought to it before the next dawn. Havtrols did not care for the things. What is the point of killing your enemy, only to fight him again?

  “I brought you back, and healed what I could. But your wounds were great, and you died again. So, I brought you back and healed you more.”

  “How did the soulstone escape the fire, good shaman?” Tarac’s eyes were wide. Gruesome shared the boy’s curiosity. Few survived the Burning. Most of those were in much worse shape than the dwarf and shaman.

  “I protected it, Tarac. I used every gift Fjur had ever given me.” He turned his attention back to the dwarf. “This went on for some time, Master.”

  “How long, boy?” Blade’s voice did not even crack.

  “Almost three days.” The priest and girl gasped. “You died nine times in all. Each time you lived a bit longer and suffered more. I exhausted myself keeping you alive through the second dawn. All the while, smoke and ash and fire threatened us.” He smiled grimly. “But you were right; the gods did not want that to be your death.

  “On the third day, you stood. But you would not speak. You asked for no food, no water. I gave them to you when I ate or drank. You responded when I talked. When I told you to do something, you would do it.”

  “What happened to Northwatch, boy?”

  The shaman shook his head. “Gone, Master, turned to rubble and ash. The Great Mountain drowned it in fire.”

  Blade gritted his teeth. “What else?”

  Pjodarr bowed his head. “The Great City met the same fate. Everything was destroyed, the palace, the library, the forges…everything.”

  “What became of my House?”

  “You, Master. You are all that remains of House Thurin. What few survived were forced to swear fealty to one of the other Houses.”

  Blade’s eye bore a hole in the old slave. “Who rules the Mark now?”

  “House Darvos.”

  The dwarf snorted.

  “There is more.” Pjodarr raised his eyes to his master. “That was seventeen years ago. They say the Great Mountain still bellows out black smoke. All of the land around the Great City is deserted. No one lives there, nothing grows. Two other great cities fell to the smoke and ash in the year that followed. Vrolldag and Stromheim. The dwarves were in crisis, and had to do something. They had to find new farmland to feed the people. At first, it was said some suggested taking the free cities, and even attacking the havtrols.”

  Blade laughed at this. He met Gruesome’s eyes. “Can ye imagine? Invade ye people, and give them a reason to all fight together. The gods give each of us a fool.”

  “Luckily,” the shaman continued, “cooler heads prevailed. They decided to retake the northern lands of Caldera. Some two years later, they invaded Grunland and renamed it Sudmark. The Calderans were none too happy about it, but they were already at war with the Fain. Of course, the elves didn’t want to let the humans be the only ones fighting two wars, so they attacked the dwarves as well.”

  “Fools, they probably could have crushed the humans.”

  Pjodarr shrugged at the dwarf’s words. “Do not underestimate the Calderans, Master. They have some good leaders, and their people still fight for their homes.” He made a dismissive gesture. “But none of that matters for now. There’s been peace for a couple of years. If you can call this peace.”

  “And why did ye bring me here?”

  The shaman smiled wistfully. “I didn’t at first, Master. I took you to my family�
��s home in Freemark.”

  Blade’s belly shook as he laughed heartily. “I bet Aela loved that! No wonder we’re so far away now!”

  “She did not mind, Master,” Pjodarr shook his head sadly. “But she passed some years ago. She did not share my bond with Fjur, and it was her time to go.”

  The dwarf sobered. The fire danced in his eye as it moistened. “Ye lost ye sweet bride, boy? I am sorry.”

  The shaman bowed his head. “She lived a good life, Master. She lived to see her first great-grandchild. When she went, her whole family was there. You were there. She was grateful for us all.”

  “She meant the world to me, Pjodarr. For all the happiness she brought ye.” Something passed between the two, and Gruesome felt as if he intruded on them. He lowered his eyes to the ground.

  The rest of the night passed in somber silence. The general slept again and was ready to travel the next morning, though his mood was somewhat mournful. He did not argue when the girl asked if she could ride behind him again, and only raised an eyebrow when they left Folik behind. Pjodarr promised to explain it to him later.

  They followed the havtrol’s blood at a much quicker pace. When Tarac mentioned that it felt like the Honorless was close, Pjodarr jumped from his var to scout ahead. He returned with a very casual demeanor, but his face was unreadable behind the silver mask.

  “You might want to take the lead, Master.”

  “Why would a general attack an Honorless havtrol first?” the dwarf asked, bemused.

  “No, there’s a troop of dwarves not forty yards ahead. They appear to be guarding some sort of cave.”

  Blade grunted. “A cave, in a forest? Are ye mad?” He stroked his long beard. “Who are these dwarves?”

  “House Darvos, although their men don’t usually patrol this far south.”

  “No,” the dwarf sounded thoughtful. “Ye make the introductions. Ye know more of what goes on here than me.”

  Pjodarr bowed. “I will represent my master well.” The old general grunted again. The shaman turned to Tarac. “Don’t say a word, unless asked a question directly. Which will be unlikely, since they won’t speak norovid to us.” He paused. “Perhaps it’s best if we wait for Folik. His sudden entrance might spark a new war.”

  They gave the var a rest until the dead man came crashing through the forest. Gruesome had to marvel at the pace he kept. A havtrol could sprint almost as fast as one of the big wolves, but he had never seen a human move so quickly. Especially while wearing armor.

  They made their way steadily to the northwest again. A whistle went out long before they saw any sign of the dwarves. The shaman’s craftiness never ceased to amaze Gruesome. How could he travel without being seen by a trained scout? There was commotion ahead of them, and they were soon met by four dwarves atop their var. A large dwarf with a thick brown beard walked his mount forward. Pjodarr ruffled his var’s neck and brought the pack to a stop. The big wolves’ noses all sniffed the air.

  Gruesome saw four vertical stripes painted on the dwarf’s armor to signify his rank as a sergeant. His helm bore the stag, the crest of House Darvos. He looked a bit young to the havtrol. The Burning and the war had taken a hard toll on the dwarves’ numbers. Before, they would not allow one of their own to ride to war until they had seen at least thirty seasons. Martial training was important to the rulers of Bergmark. They taught their soldiers tactics before they ever held a sword. The large shield strapped to the man’s back meant he was a Warshield. That meant even more training. This dwarf was already a sergeant, meaning he’d proven himself in battle, and he couldn’t be more than forty. These terrible times had changed everything for the stout men of the mountains.

  “I am Vordin, First Sergeant of the Ninth Army of House Darvos. Name your purpose in these woods.”

  Pjodarr bowed as deeply as he could from the var’s back. “We are hunters, Sergeant. We come to you on the way to our quarry.”

  “You bear the crest of House Thurin. A House that is no more.”

  Blade’s breath hissed between his teeth, but the general said nothing. “You speak wrongly, Sergeant, but not of your own determination. My master will give you the right of it.”

  The dwarf held up a hand. “Your master will give me nothing. This would be a matter for my captain. You two and the havtrol do not worry me.” He pointed to Tarac and Folik. “But you travel with a human wizard and a mercenary. I would know why before I let you go any further.”

  Gruesome tensed. How would they take the boy, a High Priest of Durum Tai and his undead companion?

  “He is not a wizard, First Sergeant. He is Tarac, a priest of Drogu; and this is Folik, his guardian.”

  Damn the shaman’s craftiness. He did not lie, but he managed to keep the young man’s secret. Priests of Drogu took vows of poverty, they wore simple clothes. And it was not unheard of for a priest of any god to travel with a bodyguard.

  The young dwarf nodded and turned his var around. They followed without a word. The dwarves were in the process of setting up tents. There were perhaps thirty of them, along with a half dozen shamans. They all looked far too young to the warrior. One bearded figure separated himself from the rest. He was short, even for a dwarf, but thick. Gruesome could tell this one was a seasoned veteran, and clearly the captain of this troop. The sergeant spurred his var forward and quickly dismounted. After a sharp rap of his fist on his chest he spoke to his captain in a hushed tone. The older dwarf looked at the newcomers with narrowed eyes and strutted toward them.

  “Who comes here, claiming to be of House Thurin?” he demanded in a booming voice.

  Pjodarr jumped from his var. “My master claims nothing. He only asserts what is!” The shaman’s words were carried on the wind to every ear. All eyes focused on him. Gruesome had never known another slave that could command such authority. “He is the Blade of House Thurin, Lord of Northwatch, General of the First Army! The enemies of the realm shrivel when his name is spoken! Any that draw arms against him weep at his gaze! For his are the strength of the mountain and the heart of all the land!”

  A few of the dwarves gasped at the shaman’s proclamation. The captain’s face remained stern.

  “And who would speak for such a man?”

  The old slave crossed his arms and held his head high. The wind swirled around him, blowing leaves and snow. But his voice only grew louder. “I am Pjodarr, my master’s humble servant. By his will do I commune with Fjur. By his grace do I command the very bonds of the earth.” The fires spread throughout the camp blazed in a flash. “The wind is my breath, the rivers my blood. In my very footsteps are the seas born. At my master’s command, I have stood on the dragon’s wing and kissed both of Fjur’s eyes.”

  And just like that, the world was quiet. Gruesome grinned. Tarac stared at the shaman in wonder, while Erliga huddled against the general’s back. The other shamans peered at Pjodarr with mouths agape and the younger dwarves held hands over their weapons with nervous apprehension. The captain took a deep breath.

  Then burst out in raucous laughter. “By the gods, I have not heard such a greeting in too long, Stormbreaker!” He bowed so low to Blade that his head almost touched the ground. “It is truly you, General. I admit I did not know you without your usual armor.” He gave the havtrol a bow. “It is an honor, glorious Gruesome. I have heard that you hunted Honorless in the mountains. Have they really come this far down?”

  The big warrior slid off his mount and returned the bow. “We killed six a few days ago, but two escaped.” Tarac whispered something to Pjodarr, and the old man nodded. The boy was anxious.

  “Eight Honorless were together? That is ill news.”

  “It is why we are here, Captain Kinar,” Pjodarr walked up to the stout dwarf. “We have chased them here, to this cave.” He pointed to the rocky opening.

  The captain shook his head. “No havtrols have come here today save for Gruesome Beartooth. We have ridden fast from the north by command of the High King himself.”

/>   “They may have made it here before you.” The shaman looked back at Tarac. “We are quite certain they are in that cave.”

  The dwarf’s eyes narrowed again. “Take a look at that cave, shaman. What do you see?”

  Pjodarr let out a long breath and stared at the grass-covered mound. His eyes went wide, and he turned to the captain. “That is not natural.”

  “So my shaman tells me, too. We’re not sure how long ago it appeared, but there has been strange things occurring north of here. We are here to secure this area until further investigations can be made.”

  Gruesome looked at Tarac. “Did they truly go in there, priest?” he said in norovid.

  The young man nodded. “Yes, good warrior.”

  The havtrol nodded and addressed the dwarf captain again. “Then I must go there. My honor demands they die.”

  Kinar grumbled to himself. “I have much respect for the three of you, but I was told to let no man pass that was not of my king’s realm. Gruesome, you are outcast of your people. And the general has sworn no fealty to a king. Though it pains me, I cannot count you as my allies.”

  “I swore fealty to one king and one king only. He was not proven unworthy to rule by right of arms, or by a vote of his own people. I call no other High King except him.” Everyone stared at Blade.

  “He died, Blade. He died when the Great City fell. You belong to a House that has no home.”

  “Tribute,” the old dwarf countered.

  Pjodarr smiled. “My master is right. If we pay tribute to your king, we will be allies.”

  The captain’s eyebrows rose. “Aye, that is true, if you want to be like the freemen. What would you pay?”

  Pjodarr waved behind him. “The var,” he said sadly. “They are good beasts, and war-hardened. We have wyvern leather.” The shaman shrugged. “We have nothing else.”

  Kinar looked at Blade. “You have one other thing.” Gruesome felt the old shaman tense. “The gods only know what lies in that cave. It would be a shame to see Tremble lost in such a place.” The other dwarf soldiers around the captain became more attentive. The havtrol lowered his hands to his weapons.

  “That is a sjalsword, Captain Kinar. It holds the lifeline of its House. It is not given or taken lightly.”

  “I know what it is, shaman. What good does it do a dead House?” He eyed the old dwarf. “What say you, Blade?”

  The general growled deep in his chest, then fixed his eye on Kinar. His voice came out like gravel. “Any of ye with the stone to take this sword from my dead hand, best draw steel now. Twenty-seven of my own kin have tried. Men of honor, heroes of wars. But a fool’s pride only leads to one outcome.”

  “It was said you died when Northwatch fell, Blade. You haven’t been seen in several years. Could be that you were hurt.” He strutted past the shaman. “Just how close did you come to the fire that swallowed the Great City?”

  Blade lowered his head. His right hand rose to his helm. Pjodarr opened his mouth, as if to speak, and stopped himself. Slowly, the general pulled the winged steel from his head.

  His right eye glared at the captain, but that was not what Gruesome saw. The top left side of Blade’s head was a mass of pink scars. The flesh had melted over his left eye, and the ear was gone. The havtrol had seen people burned before, but none that died from it and were brought back. The old dwarf only said two words before he covered his grotesque face.

  “Close enough.”

  Kinar was shaken. Dwarves did not show such a thing easily. His voice had lost its boldness. “And what would I tell my king if it were lost?”

  “Ye tell him that something lives down there that killed the Blade of House Thurin, and he should make his prayers to every god he holds dear. ‘Cause there’ll be no hope for the rest of ye.”

  The captain chuckled. “You haven’t changed, General. I’ll let you pass. And gods have mercy on whoever you find.”

  The old slave sighed, almost imperceptibly. “We have information for you as well, and would ask a boon.”

  “A boon?”

  “The girl,” Pjodarr pointed at Erliga. “She will need an escort home.”

  “And where is her home?”

  “The Sky Palace.”

  Kinar looked at the girl with suspicion. “What is one of Ranagol’s slaves doing in my king’s forest?”

  The shaman shook his head. “I’m not sure, but it’s one of the things we would discuss with you.”

  Erliga whispered something in Blade’s ear. “They’ll take ye home,” he told her over his shoulder in norovid.

  “What?” she screamed. Everyone looked at her. “But I am yours, you saved me from them. I’m yours now!”

  “I never claimed ye, girl!”

  She jumped off the var and ran toward Pjodarr. “You’ll take me, won’t you? I’ll be a good servant!”

  “A slave taking a slave?”

  The girl looked at him with panicked eyes. She spun around until she saw Tarac. She ran to the boy like a mad woman. “Claim me. I’ll be good to you. Don’t make me go back!” She put her hands on the young man’s chest and whispered something to him. His face turned bright red, and then he grabbed her hands and lowered them to her sides.

  “I can’t command you, Erliga. You may go wherever you wish.”

  “I want to stay with you. Please, let me stay.”

  The priest gave Pjodarr a pleading look. The shaman shook his head. “I guess she stays with us.”

  “Does he claim her as spoils?” the dwarf captain asked the old slave.

  “So it seems.”

  Gruesome stared at the little girl. Why would she choose to stay with them, when she knew they still hunted the fiends that killed her other companions? Erliga clutched the priest’s arm as she huddled behind him. Tarac seemed to almost fear the girl’s touch. Kinar gave them a skeptical glare.

  “The day grows late. Will you stay the night, or do you plan on sleeping in the unknown?”

  Blade slipped from his perch atop the var. “We will accept ye hospitality, so long as it doesn’t come with more threats.”

  “Are you saying the Lord of Northwatch felt threatened by me?” There were some chuckles from the captain’s men.

  In a flash, the general pulled the large sword from his back and pointed it at Pjodarr. “Shaman!” he shouted and lightning shot down the blade toward the old slave. Without turning his attention from Kinar, the shaman reached his right hand toward the blue arc. It bounced from his palm to land squarely in the middle of the closest fire. Kinar’s face sobered. Blade returned the bone-handled sword to its hook with a flourish and winked at the younger dwarf.

  “I think I’ll sleep the peace of the gods tonight. How about ye?”

  The Tower