by Jeff Crook
"You fight like an elf," Vault Forgesmoke growled after missing yet another vicious sword blow.
Jungor darted in while the Daergar was still complaining, his right hand raised for a devastating overhead swing. Meanwhile, he switched his sword to his left hand and drove in low with the blade while Vault was lifting his own sword high in defense. The point scraped against the metal scales of the Daergar's vest and slipped harmlessly under his armpit. Jungor caught Vault's sword arm before he could counter the blow, and Vault trapped Jungor's weapon under his arm. Grunting furious oaths, feet stamping on the hard-packed floor, the two warriors grappled in a dance of death to howls from the crowd.
Vault was the more muscular of the two, but Jungor's height gave him leverage over his opponent. He began to force his opponent's sword arm into an awkward position over his head. In response, the Daergar spat full in Jungor's face. Blinking through the spittle, Jungor only bent his arm more pitilessly than before, muscles cracking and joints straining to the breaking point.
Suddenly, Vault's knees gave, and he dropped to the ground with a cry of agony. Normally Jungor would have followed up with a killing blow, but his alert senses detected deception in that bellow of pain. Vault had fallen before his strength had given out. Jungor released his grip on the Daergar's sword arm and leaped back.
At the same time, Vault scooped up a handful of dust and flung it in the Hylar thane's face. Jungor turned aside and threw up one hand against the cloud of dust, while slashing in a wide arc to prevent his opponent from following up on the blinding attack. Something wet and sticky struck him on the right side of the face and clung there like tar.
Immediately, the flesh around his right eye began to sting horribly. He clawed frantically at the burning substance even as he slashed blindly with his sword, desperately trying to hold back his opponent while he fought to clear his vision. Some clinging vitriol was even now eating away at the flesh of his face, sizzling in the wet tissues of his right eye. Jungor ground his teeth against the hideous pain and fought to see through the haze. In the gray blur of his vision, he detected movement and little else. He turned, his sword held defensively before him.
A sharp blow knocked the weapon from his hand, and he ducked instinctively as his opponent's blade whistled over his head. He caught up a double handful of dirt and flung it blindly upward. Hearing the Daergar splutter in rage and surprise, Jungor rolled free and came to his feet in a stumbling run.
He careened blindly across the length of the arena, blundering to a stop against the wall. Members of the crowd hung over the wall's edge, howling with fury and bloodlust, pounding the stone with their fists. He stared up at them, blinking through his ruined right eye. He felt the flesh on the right side of his face begin to sag, and darkness clouded his vision, but after a few moments, he was able to make out the individual faces of those leaning toward him. There were dwarves from all the clans. Some taunted him, more shouted encouragement.
Jungor glanced quickly around, still blinking furiously against the stinging pain. His right hand and wrist burned where he had used them to try to wipe away the clinging acid from his face. He searched for his bodyguard and found him, pinned to the second tier of seats by members of the crowd who wanted to prevent the captain from interfering in the combat. Across the arena, Vault Forgesmoke was shaking the last of the dust from his eyes and spitting curses that were lost in the uproar.
Jungor reached for the dagger he usually wore at his belt, but he had left it in the royal box in his haste. His sword lay on the ground on the other side of the arena. Weaponless, half blind, and weak with pain, he knew he had little chance of besting an armed foe as determined as Vault Forgesmoke. He had but one tactical choice—to accept a wound in order to come to grips with his opponent.
Jungor steeled his resolve and started to advance toward his opponent when something fell at his feet. At the same time, he heard a voice cry his name over the din of the crowd. He looked down and saw an ornate staff lying before him. He turned toward the voice and saw that once again the Theiwar thane Brecha Quickspring had come to his aid. She leaned over the barrier wall, crying his name and urging him to pick up the staff she had thrown to him.
Jungor had seen the staff in her hands at many meetings of the Council of Thanes. It was a wizard's staff, for Brecha Quickspring was one of the more powerful sorcerers of her clan. The Theiwar had an innate magical ability that allowed them to cast spells, unlike most dwarves, who feared and distrusted magic. The staff was made of some unidentifiable dark wood and mounted with a large round red stone set in gold.
Jungor reluctantly picked up the staff. Although he bore a natural prejudice against magic and doubted that it would prove much use against his Daergar opponent's heavy sword, he had few options. The staff felt surprisingly light in his hands, which only deepened his distrust. Surely it would shatter at the first blow. A staff was no weapon for a true warrior.
Vault Forgesmoke lifted his heavy curved sword and charged across the arena, bellowing a battle cry that eclipsed the deafening crowd. Jungor readied himself, still trying to blink away the last of the acid. Vault switched his blade to his left hand as he closed. Jungor turned to meet him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the dagger appear in the Daergar's right hand and dart toward his unprotected left side.
Jungor dived under the Daergar's sword, away from the slashing dagger. At the same time, he swung around, smashing the butt of the staff into his opponent's left leg. Vault Forgesmoke stumbled with the momentum of his own attack, crumpling from a shattered kneecap. Jungor turned the staff and swung it with all his might against the Daergar's back before he had even hit the ground. As the staff slammed into his back, a flash of scarlet light burst from the red stone. Steel scale armor shattered like glass, and his spine sank beneath the blow, a sodden pulp of bone, meat, and nerve. Vault Forgesmoke dropped like a poleaxed hog.
As he fell, he rolled onto his back, his arms thrown wide to either side. He lay before Jungor, panting, paralyzed, his dark violet eyes wide with terror as he looked up at the Hylar thane's acid-stained visage. The crowd fell silent at the suddenness and violence of the attack.
"Mercy!" the Daergar cried weakly.
Snarling, Jungor tossed aside the staff and picked up the dagger his opponent had dropped. He knelt on Vault Forgesmoke's chest and with a violence that shocked even the most hardened warriors among the crowd, plunged the blade into his helpless opponent. Not satisfied, he sliced open the dwarfs body, reached inside, and dragged out his red, still-beating heart.
Jungor rose and approached the silent, horrified crowd, the Daergar's heart dangling from his fist.
"You want blood?" he screamed. "I give you blood!" With a wail of rage, he flung the organ into the stands. Blood spattered the faces of those in the front row, but they barely flinched. They sat mesmerized.
Jungor returned to stand over his vanquished opponent. His fists covered in gore, his right eye a milky ruin, he glared down at the dead Daergar warrior. "As thane of the Hylar, I bar your entrance to the Kingdom of the Dead, Vault Forgesmoke. For your treachery, your ghost shall wander the houseless mountains beyond the doors of Thorbardin forever!"
He turned and stalked toward the exit. As if released from a spell, the crowd erupted in wild cheers. Dwarves poured over the wall and into the arena, some to gather reverently around the Hylar thane, others to drag Vault Forgesmoke's body out of the arena. Astar Trueshield surged past them and raced to Jungor's side, Thane Brecha Quickspring following closely in his wake.
The Theiwar thane stopped only to retrieve her staff. To anyone who would listen, she cried, "I have the sight, and I saw Vault Forgesmoke's ghost obey Thane Stonesinger's command! I saw his ghost bow in obedience."
Those who heard her turned to Jungor with awe written into their features. "The dead obey him!" Thane Quickspring shouted over and over again, gleefully.
7
Jungor slapped the doctor's hand away from his face. "Clumsy oaf!" he s
pat, then snatched the bloody towel from the doctor's grasp and clapped it to his ruined eye. "Must I do everything for myself?"
"The wound must be cleaned, my lord," the doctor insisted as he tried to pry the towel from Jungor once more.
"Just do it, then," Jungor snarled. "Stop pussyfooting around. I'm not some nobleborn fainting at the thought of a hangnail, whose brow you pat to cool his fevered brain. I won't have your head lopped off if it hurts. Just do your job and be done with it!"
"As you wish, my lord," the Daewar doctor said, bowing. He picked up a leather bag from the floor, set it on a chair, and began sorting through various gleaming metal probes, knives, pliers, and other instruments of torture and surgery. Jungor lay back on the examination table, sighing angrily while he pressed the crimson-soaked towel to his face. The table was as sturdy as a butcher's carving block. It had seen enough meat carved upon it in its day. The doctor's examination room lay one level beneath the arena at the bottom of a staircase leading directly up to the arena floor. Those wounded in the arena were usually carried here by orderlies, but Jungor had made the descent on his own feet, refusing to be coddled.
Hextor Ironhaft nervously paced the chamber, trying to oversee the doctor's work. Astar Trueshield stood beside the closed door, his hackles up and still angry at being prevented from protecting his thane. Jungor glanced at him and snorted. "You would have disgraced me," he said. "Interference isn't allowed."
"You are the thane!" Astar shouted angrily, forgetting himself for a moment.
"If I had been attacked in some alley of Norbardin," Jungor said, "I would have your head on a pike for failing in your duty to protect me, Astar Trueshield. But in the arena, there are rules—"
"Nevertheless, you shouldn't have risked your life in this wasteful manner," Hextor Ironhaft interrupted. "Rules be damned. There is more at stake here, my thane."
"Do not preach to me, Hextor Ironhaft," Jungor said in a low, dangerous snarl that brought the wealthy Hylar merchant to a stop. "My honor was at stake. What do you think would have happened if I had been dishonored by that Daergar?"
Cowed, Hextor shrugged and resumed his nervous pacing. "Those who prevented Captain Trueshield from going to your aid may have been part of the conspiracy."
"I assure you, they now regret their mistake," Astar said.
Jungor chuckled appreciatively. "Yes, I know. The doctor has already seen them in the other room. I expect nothing less from you, even though they were merely enforcing the rules of the arena," he said. "I'm glad you didn't kill them, though."
Jungor smiled grimly and turned his attention to the doctor, who was still rummaging through his surgery bag and laying out various instruments, the use of which was beyond guessing. "By the gods, how many knives does it take to pluck out one eye?" the thane snarled at him.
I can do this quickly, or I can do it correctly, my thane," the Daewar doctor said, rising up with a pair of metal tongs in either hand.
"They're probably already saying I am dying down here," Jungor grumbled. He toweled his eye one last time and tossed the bloody rag on the floor. Though a veteran warrior of many battles, Astar winced at the sight of the thane's vitriol-scarred face. Hextor clapped a hand over his lips and turned away. The skin around the eye was hideously marred and bruised a dusky purple, like rotted meat, while the raw flesh showed through in places where the skin had fallen away entirely. The right eye was the color of watery milk, and a sickening wheylike substance oozed down the thane's face and into his beard. He seemed not to notice the pain, which must have been excruciating. He lay on the table as though waiting for the physician to remove a splinter.
Suddenly, the door banged open. Astar started out of his study of the thane's face, his sword already in his fist. Ferro Dunskull ducked aside as the captain of the guard came leaping around the door.
"It's me!" he shrieked, lifting his hands defensively.
"What do you want here, Daergar?" Captain Trueshield demanded harshly as he sheathed his blade. Outside the door, dozens of dwarves huddled in the hall, awaiting some word of Jungor's fate. Astar blocked their view with his body, filling the narrow doorway, but the look on his face discouraged their efforts as much as the breadth of his shoulders. Many turned away and pretended interest in the quality of the floor's stonework.
"Let him in, Captain," Jungor sighed from the table.
Astar closed the door and resumed his post. Ferro sneered at him and approached the examination table. When he saw Jungor's face, his sneer changed to a pained smile. He glanced quickly at Hextor, who merely shook his head as though still trying to recover from his bout of nausea.
"What passes above, in Norbardin?" Jungor asked. "Do they think me dying?"
"Quite the opposite, my lord," Ferro answered without looking the thane in his remaining eye. He couldn't pull his gaze away from that milky white orb resting in its bruised flower of flesh. "The testimony of… um… of Thane Quickspring… that is to say… "
"Spit it out!" Jungor barked impatiently.
"Does it hurt?" Ferro asked, edging closer. He reached out one hand and gingerly touched the ruined flesh of Jungor's cheek.
The thane jerked away as though touched by a snake. "Like the unholy blazes of the Abyss. Now get on with your report!" he shouted.
Composing himself, Ferro continued. "Thane Quickspring continues to spread word of her vision."
"Who asked her to meddle in this affair?" Jungor asked, his gaze turning to Hextor.
"Her staff proved quite useful," Ferro remarked. Jungor scowled at him, but then his face grew thoughtful.
"This vision of hers may prove more useful still," Hextor said in a soft voice.
Jungor nodded slowly and motioned for Ferro to continue.
The Daergar cleared his throat. "All known accomplices, acquaintances, and family of Vault Forgesmoke are being rounded up as we speak."
"Find them. Hunt them down to the last dwarf," Jungor said through clenched teeth. "I want to question them myself. Tarn Bellowgranite arranged this, mark my words. He arranged it to happen while he is away, to remove any possible link back to himself. That link is there, and I want you to find it!" In his fury, he sat up on the table, eliciting vehement protestations from the physician.
Jungor turned his rage against his healer. "Dig this thing out of my face or I'll have you replaced. Permanently!"
Shrugging, the doctor picked up a black pottery bottle and removed its stopper. He tipped its liquid contents onto a handkerchief. Jungor's nose wrinkled at the pungent aroma. "What is that?" he demanded.
"Something to make you sleep while I operate," the doctor said.
"Put away your potions. You won't use any magic on me," Jungor said. Shrugging, the doctor set aside his anesthesia and picked up a long, narrow-bladed knife and a pair of thin tongs from the table. Climbing up on the table beside the thane, he set one knee across Jungor's thigh and commenced probing the ruined orb's socket.
After a few moments of watching, Hextor's knees buckled. He sank beside a washbasin. Astar closed his eyes, but Ferro continued to observe the procedure with professional fascination.
Meanwhile, Jungor sat stoically under the doctor's ungentle ministrations. He said through gritted teeth, "The people love me, they look to me for leadership, not Tarn Bellowgranite—that half-breed whelp of a Daergar bitch, may his father's bones rot."
The doctor popped Jungor's ruined eye from its socket and dropped in with a wet plink into a bucket beside the table. The thane didn't even wince, but Hextor gripped the edge of the washbasin as though the room were turning over. Astar shook his head in disbelief, and Ferro giggled nervously. Jungor snatched a rag from the table and began toweling out the empty socket.
"I should cleanse the wound with dwarf spirits," the doctor said.
"I'll do it myself," Jungor growled.
"I'm sure you will," the doctor responded as he began to gather his instruments. "Have a care that you don't pour the dwarf spirits directly into your brai
n pan."
"Thank you. You've done quite enough," Jungor sneered. "You have other patients, I'm sure."
"The king couldn't have arranged this without the aid of Thane Shahar Bellowsmoke," Ferro said.
"What do you know of Vault Forgesmoke's family?" Jungor asked. "Is there a connection to the thane?"
Ferro tugged his chin whiskers in thought, slowly massaging his thick lower lip. "The Forgesmoke clan are cousins to the Bellowsmoke, so there is the familial connection. Thane Bellowsmoke is cousin to the king… but if Tarn ordered this, it will be difficult to prove. It is dangerous to challenge us Daergar at this time. Most of our warriors refused to go with Tarn on his mad adventure to save the elves, but Shahar is said to be loyal, if any Daergar can be called loyal."
"Present company excluded," Jungor interjected.
Ferro smiled, revealing a row of uneven brown teeth. "Of course!"
Somewhat recovered, Hextor said, "Thane Bellowsmoke has little love for you, my lord, and that makes him a friend of the king. If a confession were arranged, it could be used to overthrow Tarn Bellowgranite."
The doctor dropped one of his metal instruments in surprise, its sharp metal clatter punctuating the look of horror on his face. He quickly gathered it up and stuffed it into his bag.
Jungor leaped down from the table and accosted the Hylar merchant angrily. "Who said anything about overthrowing the king?" he shouted. "Did anyone here even mention rebellion? May the gods forgive me for saying so— if Tarn Bellowgranite is behind this murderous attack on me, the evidence will be presented before the full council, in accordance with the law. I am a loyal thane of Thorbardin. My well-known dispute with Tarn Bellowgranite is restricted to the Council Hall. Let no one speak treason before me."
