As he neared it, he could hear voices inside. The distinct gnashing, spittle flinging speech he heard certainly belonged to goblins, not dwarves. There was an oddity, though. He was certain that he did hear a dwarf, and was pretty sure that the dwarf was giving directions. What’s more, he was certain it was a female dwarf, and that she was directing them to break down the door to the Hallmaster’s quarters that lay beyond the chamber. Who would lead goblins into the Hall to kill the Hallmaster? What person would possibly want to do that?
He slowly moved his head around the corner until he could see, and was shocked by what he saw. Vahneen? She was standing to the side, with her hands on her hips, and watching as the goblins swung picks at the stone doors that led into the Hallmaster’s chambers. He had trouble believing it, but it was true.
When he leaned back, he looked out into the darkness of the chamber. The void below was ominous, but nothing seemed worse to him than the fact that the goblins were inside of the Hall thanks to the aid of one of the dwarves! It sickened him to think that he’d spent time with her before, but it called into question her interest in him. It was far too much like what he’d seen from Fanan. Come to think of it, it was exactly what he’d seen from Fanan.
Vahneen’s claims of being the sole survivor of a Hall, along with her actions towards him, which did exceed Fanan’s, now made more sense than they had before. He’d dismissed them prior, but he should have been made more curious by them instead. Now she was about to do something that he really couldn’t allow to happen. He was more than certain Dwemorin would be awake inside at this point, probably prepared for battle, but even the Hallmaster couldn’t beat 20 goblins and another dwarf on his own. Dearic had no choice but to make a play himself.
His grip tightened on his rapier, and he wished he had his armor. Since he didn’t, he stepped through the doorway with rapier raised at the ready, hoping that if Dwemorin heard fighting he would come out.
“Vahneen, you traitorous filth,” he said. That got her attention, and the goblins. The rear ones started coming for him. “You will pay for what you’ve done here.”
“Oh I’ll pay? Who’s going to make me? You?”
He was pretty sure that Vahneen didn’t know about his ability to use magic, or hoped she didn’t, and he wanted to keep it that way, which meant he had to use his blade. The first goblins were always the stupid ones, rushing right in. He skewered one through the eye, stopping it, and withdrew his blade swiftly to parry the strike of one of the others. A third managed to stick a blade into the seam of his jerkin, piercing his side, but he brought his arm about and smacked it with his bracer across the face, sending it sprawling away from him. The other goblins began moving his way, sensing an easy kill since he was outnumbered. Even Vahneen turned her back on the door.
That was her mistake. When she turned her back and started coming towards where the goblins were fighting Dearic, Dwemorin made his move. He slammed the stone doors open, one of them colliding with the female dwarf and sending her aside, and rushed out decked in full armor and carrying a battle axe. He threw himself into the goblins, scattering them about with his momentum. Fortunately he stopped before running Dearic over. That giant axe of his cleaved goblin heads free of their shoulders.
Dearic didn’t stand around. His side hurt, but he went on the offensive while the goblins were caught off guard. Quick flicks of his wrist, and carefully coordinated steps, put two goblins on the ground. It was a dance to him. The footwork, wrist, and arm movements necessary to be a competent rapier swordsman were no different from those of a dancer. It was why he’d chosen the weapon. The grace of each precise strike, each time his blade pierced a goblins head or torso, was beautiful to him. Not in that it caused death, but in that it prevented it. For as he killed the goblins, and as Dwemorin did the same, he prevented them from killing anyone else. Goblins were only bred to kill. There was no dishonor in doing the same to them.
Eventually they were all dead. Dearic acquired a few additional wounds from lucky goblin strikes, but Dwemorin appeared to be fine. The elder dwarf was breathing heavily as he turned to look at Vahneen, who had risen and drawn weapons while the goblins were decimated. She glowered at them and said nothing.
“Put your weapons down, girl,” Dwemorin said as he faced her. “You will die here.”
“Death is better than being your prisoner!”
That was all it took for Vahneen to charge the two warriors. She was surprisingly quick for a dwarf. Dwemorin swung at her, but she danced out of the way of the blade, twirled about him, and struck him twice in weak points of his armor. Dearic was there, though, and she’d opened herself. His blade pierced her back, just below her right shoulder blade. The dwarf woman cried out and spun away, glowering at him. Curses he didn’t recognize flew from her mouth as her arm dangled limp, blade falling from her hand.
Dwemorin swung about, more slowly than before, and advanced. Dearic moved to the opposite side, blade pointed at Vahneen. Before he’d found her strange, but now he could only see her as an enemy which needed to be dealt with. She ducked the axe that swung for her head, and attacked Dwemorin with abandon, leaping upon him and jabbing at the weak points in his formidable armor. Dwemorin was unable to throw her off.
She was so focused on attacking the Hallmaster that Dearic was ignored. It was clear to him that she wanted to complete whatever quest she was on at all costs. He moved in and stabbed her repeatedly. Blood began to pour from her body, and she cried out, but refused to let go of her quarry. Dearic stabbed again and again, striking at critical locations. Eventually her body went slack and Dwemorin shoved her off as she fell limply to the floor. Blood oozed from her mouth, but there was a vile sneer written upon her features.
“You will lose,” she said, blood flying from her mouth. “Lord Gregor will kill you all!”
A blinding flash pierced the room, emanating from Vahneen. Dearic and Dwemorin covered their eyes until it dissipated. When they looked back, what they saw confounded them. Were Vahneen had once been, there was now a smaller dwarf and the body of a half-elf. Both of them were dead. Dearic looked between them and then looked at Dwemorin with wide eyes.
“What in the name of God is this?”
Chapter Eight
Dearic knelt down over the corpse of the dwarf first. He reached a hand to check for a pulse, but there wasn’t one, just as he’d expected. This dwarf was unfamiliar to him, but so were many of the dwarves that lived in Pabila. There were enough of them it would take him a long time to truly meet them all. The half-elf was even more of a mystery. Also deceased, she appeared to be relatively young. How did she get mixed up in all of this?
A commotion behind him drew his attention and he saw a couple of dwarves carrying the wounded one he’d found below. They lay him gently in the healing waters and submerged him a few times to ensure that he was thoroughly drenched in the water. One held him afloat while the other went to start clearing the bodies. No doubt these dwarves had heard the fighting and arrived too late. Now they cleared away most of the dead. None rushed to tend his wounds, but he chose to ignore it.
When he turned back, he could see Dwemorin staring sadly at the dwarf.
“You knew her?” Dearic asked, a note of surprise in his voice.
“Yes,” the Hallmaster answered as he looked down at her. “Riheene was her name. She was the daughter of a dear friend who died recently. She disappeared from a trading caravan sent south to your lands.” Dearic frowned. He wanted to ask why she would be involved with the dwarf Vahneen, a traitor, but he couldn’t find a way to word the question that wouldn’t set the Hallmaster on edge. If there was one thing he did not wish to deal with it was an angry Hallmaster. He chose to be silent and wait for Dwemorin to speak again.
“I’ve seen this before.”
“What?” Dearic asked, surprised. “You’ve seen this before?”
“It’s the work of your uncle. He somehow combines two beings into one.”
“He’s not my unc
le,” Dearic said through clenched teeth.
“Yes, he is,” Dwemorin said as he turned his head to stare at Dearic. His beard drooped down over his chest, still majestically braided. “The sooner you realize that he has the ability to use magic the same as you do, the sooner you will realize the gravity of what this world faces; what you face. This is no simple matter, Dearic Aven. This is not something your trinkets and blade can solve. If you think it so then all is already lost.”
All he could do was stare at the dwarf. His side ached, as did his myriad of other small wounds, but he would survive. He’d take a quick dip in the healing waters when all of this was over.
What the Hallmaster said resonated inside of his mind. He knew it to be true, but he hadn’t wanted to accept it. Now, it seemed, he wasn’t being given a choice.
“Why me?” he asked.
“Why not?”
An unusual answer, but Dearic didn’t have a response. Was there a reason it shouldn’t be him? It could have been anyone, but it was his uncle that was the menace to Amarand, not someone else’s. It made sense that he would have to be the one to stop him. Family stopping family.
“I don’t know magic well enough to stop him. How can I possibly take the fight to him?” he asked.
“You can’t. That isn’t your destiny.”
“How is it that you know my destiny so well?”
Dwemorin didn’t respond. Instead, he looked back at the body of the dwarf and the half-elf, silently staring at them. Dearic ground his teeth for a moment before speaking again.
“Fine. What must I do?”
“You must leave.”
“Leave?” Dearic asked. “You’re sitting here and telling me of my future but you want me to leave?”
“Yes, because no one here can give you the knowledge you need to survive, let alone have a chance of beating your uncle. You must leave and you must go west.”
West. That meant the Laradain. He’d never actually been there, but he knew the place was one of the more majestic of all of Amarand. A beautiful, ancient wood that was inhabited, and defended, by the Laradain Elves, the last of the magic wielding brand of elves to survive, and the only ones to hold off the Devan. The wisdom of seeking them out was not lost on him, but the question was whether they would even help him. If Dwemorin knew he was the nephew of Gregor, the elves would know. Would they even trust him?
“What if they don’t trust me?”
Dwemorin glanced at him, his mouth tilted up on one side and eyes twinkling. “Good, you know where to go. I was beginning to wonder if you were as old as you said. You’ve been acting like a petulant child.”
Dearic sighed. The elder dwarf was right, he had been.
“They will take you in,” Dwemorin continued. “They will know your destiny as I do, and their part in it. If they refused it would seal their own demise, and elves are too pretentious to allow themselves to be killed by their distrust of the younger races. They will guide you as they must.”
“Fine. But with the main entrance blocked, how do I leave?”
“Did you think we only had two entrances to this Hall? Boy, you really don’t know dwarves.”
“It’s not exactly as if I’ve been shown every secret this Hall has to offer. I haven’t lived here my whole life, just for a few months.”
Dwemorin paused and then nodded. “That is true. I will have one of the others take you to a side entrance. You can leave without being seen by the goblins or whatever else Is lurking out there. If you head west you will eventually find your way, but be wary. Our last news was that Gregor had orcs trying to find a way into the forest.”
“Great. Goblins first, then orcs. Not sure how it could get any better than that.”
“Tempt the fates and it will only get worse,” Dwemorin said as he looked down at Dearic’s side. “You’re still bleeding. I suggest you enter the pool or else your wound will fester. I can tell it’s deep.”
He pointed to the pool of blood beside Dearic. It was large, but not deathly so. Dearic sighed and stood. He was still curious about what had been said in regards to the dwarf and the half-elf, but he knew better than to press his luck, and Dwemorin seemed pretty insistent that he take a swim. Removing his jerkin, he could only wince with each twitch of the muscles in his side. The pain was worse than he’d noticed before.
Dropping the jerkin, he removed his weapon belt and walked to the water, gently sinking down within it. Cool though it was, he found the feeling of immediate relief to be pleasing and a small sigh escaped his lips. Dwemorin had walked over and kicked his jerkin aside.
“I will send someone to get your things from your room,” he said. “You will need to leave as soon as possible. Delaying even for a night might be too much at this point.”
Dearic didn’t respond. The water felt too good and he was certain that the Hallmaster was right anyway. The dwarf was always right, it seemed. He marveled at the fact that the dwarf seemed to understand so much about the outside world despite being cooped up in a Hall for so long. It made him wonder just how old Dwemorin was. For him to have as much knowledge as he did, he had to be ancient, but he certainly didn’t look it. In fact, he didn’t look greatly older than his daughter, aside from the white hair..
The gentleness of the water caused a smile to touch his face. It gradually warmed the more he was within it, and a murmur of pleasure passed his lips. If he could stay there forever, just drifting in the water, he would have done so.
As he lay within it, his mind drifted away. They settled first on Fanan and he wondered where she was. Dwemorin had said she’d gone away, but why? He wished that he could have at least said good bye to her. Though he’d only known her a short time, and she’d spent much of that time trying to bed him, not unlike Vahneen, she had been a friend. He would have liked to have her as a travel companion as he went west rather than go it alone. Surely she would know the way better than he, and the banter they would share would be entertaining. Instead, he was set on what was sure to be a dull walk.
Thoughts of Aiyana drifted through his thoughts then. What of her? Those golems they’d seen had been headed for the Valley. Would they be trouble for the Mists? He doubted that, whatever the golems and their masters were, they would be able to see the Mists, but he was curious enough to worry about it nonetheless. Perhaps if he managed to stop his uncle he would go and see if she was alright. His minded drifted back to the time they’d shared, before they’d been attacked by the creature and Draen’e had revealed her true colors. He ground his teeth together as thoughts of the redhead entered his mind. They angered him enough that he stirred within the water and opened his eyes.
Underground he had no idea how much time had passed, but when he looked towards the edge of the pool, he could see his things had been stacked there, and Dwemorin was nowhere to be seen. Reaching down into the water, he inspected his wounds and found that they were sealed up. Perhaps they were not fully healed, but it was enough for him to feel no pain.
Climbing free of the water, he reached a hand up and slicked back his hair, sending a cascade of water to splash into the pool. The dwarf that was helping the severely wounded one looked up at him, but didn’t say anything before turning back to his duties. Dearic stood and stared at the wall, thinking through what was to come. He’d been thinking before that he should leave anyway, but he hadn’t fully decided on it. Now he felt as if he must.
Instead of reaching for the jerkin and putting that on, he slipped free of his tunic and pulled on a fresh one from his pack. Next he slipped into his armor. He didn’t have to worry about his pants. The leather absorbed no water, treated as it was, so he’d only had to wait for the water on his skin to wash down. Each piece of the armor was cinched closed, and he finished with the bracers before shoving the rest of his things into his pack. It was going to be a hard journey, walking in the armor, but he would do what must be done.
When he was fully dressed and situated, he glanced towards the doors to Dwemorin’s chamber
s. They stood open, but no Hallmaster was to be seen. Neither were the bodies of the dwarf woman and half-elf. He turned and headed for the stairs, but was met just outside of the opening by an older dwarf with one eye that was completely grayed over.
“I’ve been sent to take you to the west entrance,” he said, offering up a sack in his hands. “Food for your trip. Mostly hard tack and dried meat. You’d best ration it or you’ll starve to death out there. It’s winter now and most of the animals have gone into hiding. You won’t find much to hunt.”
Winter. This was going to be harder than he thought. The snows would slow him down, and he was going to be cold in his armor. The dwarf beckoned him to follow after he took the sack of food and put it over his shoulder. He was led down the stairs towards the main chamber, but they stopped on one of the landings a bit further up. Here they walked across the landing and across one of the many narrow bridges that connected the central spire to the tunnels around it.
Down a tunnel lit by glowing stones they went, until they reached what appeared to be a dead end with a single dwarf waiting for them. The dwarf was holding some sort of fur across one arm, which he held out towards Dearic without saying a word. Dearic reached for it, and found that it was a large, bearskin cloak. I wonder if they made this while I healed or if they had it already. Surely they didn’t have time to make it. I wasn’t in the water that long.
He slid the cloak on over his armor and packs for good measure. It would help to keep things dry in the snow, which was crucial to his survival in the cold. If his packs soaked through, his spare clothes would be worthless to him if he needed them.
“The way down the mountain is not marked,” the dwarf that had led him said. “You will have to find your own path. We’ve not seen any goblins around this side thus far.”
Dearic nodded as the other dwarf reached for the stone and gave a tug on a piece that he hadn’t seen protruding. The stone moved across the opening into an alcove with surprising grace and fluidity. Nary a sound did it make. He marveled at the door for a moment before looking outward. Though he was certain that it was day, it was almost impossible to tell given the amount of snow that was falling. He couldn’t see much further than ten feet out. With a silent nod to each, he stepped into the snow and began to look for the way down the mountain.
In The Depths Of Winter Page 9
