by J. W. Webb
The hammer struck and struck, its impact slotting each piece into another, and after every blow Croagon sealed the link with a rune of power. The shards looked tiny under the blows of that huge hammer, but such was the Smith’s skill that He never missed, using just enough force to fuse and not break the crystal. The ringing and clanging hurt their ears and the forge’s crackle and spit kept them well back.
The crown took shape. Croagon eased the last shard into place between His gnarly fingers and then hammered down hard. He spoke the final seal rune and ran His huge hands over the surface of the crystal. The Smith looked strained and tired, yet pleased with His achievement.
And there it was at last.
The Tekara. The Crystal Crown made whole again. Flawless and glistening with diamond light. Looking tiny like a priceless jewel on the bare slab of the giant’s anvil.
The Smith’s sightless sockets fell on Corin then.
“TAKE IT, MORTAL.”
“Me?” Corin hesitated, not sure what to do. Then shrugging he took a step forward, but Tarin leapt in front of him and made a wild grab for the Tekara.
“The crown is mine!” Tarin shouted. “I will earn the right to wear it.” The prince held out his hand to grasp the blazing crystal coronet. But again he was rejected. The Tekara’s light darkened to angry crimson. The crown’s sentient source recognised the one who had betrayed it in the golden palace that autumn afternoon. Tarin looked horrified and upset.
“Why does it reject me?”
“That should be obvious, fool,” snapped Zallerak standing behind him. “You cannot expect to wear the crown a second time. The connotations would be worse than before. We must find another to rule Kelthaine—someone worthy. We can fret about that later. For the time being I will take it.” Zallerak stepped forward to the anvil, grasped the re-forged crown with both hands and lifted it high above his head.
“Kell’s Crown forged anew! Now let our enemies tremble. The tide has turned!” As though responding to his words the crown’s light shifted to a burning lightning blue.
Zallerak smiled. He reached out to the bag that had contained the shards. He spoke a command, the bag expanded to double the size. Zallerak placed the Tekara in the bag and fastened the drawstrings tight, finally lashing those around his belt.
“I thank you, Mighty Croagon,” he yelled up at the god’s ravaged face, then turning to the others added, “We should depart.”
Croagon loomed over Zallerak. “WHAT OF MY PRICE?”
“Consider it paid, you are free for the first time in millennia. Take that and be merry, it’s all I’ve got at the moment. I’d offer more if I could but we are pressed for time.”
“I WILL TAKE IT, BECAUSE I KNOW WELL HOW TREACHEROUS ARE YOUR KIND. BUT I SAY TO YOU THIS, ARALAIS. YOU ARE IN OUT OF YOUR DEPTH. YOU CANNOT WIN THIS WAR ALONE.”
After hearing these last words, Zallerak began beating a hasty retreat into the postern behind the forge. Ulani and Bleyne were hard on his heels, both eager to be gone. Tarin followed, dragging his heels; the prince’s face was pale and drawn. Corin watched them vanish from sight. He wasn’t ready to leave yet.
Corin turned back; he stared up at the ruined face of the Smith who slumped massive in deep fatigue beside His forge.
“What will become of you, Master Smith? You are free—will you leave this place now?” Croagon didn’t reply, seeming lost in long forgotten memories.
A scraping sound distracted Corin. Perched on the anvil was a large raven watching him with cold clever eyes. How the bird had found its way in here Corin couldn’t begin to guess, though he wasn’t that surprised to see it.
The raven croaked twice, showed its wings and then took flight. Up it flew circling Croagon’s head three times before perching on His hunched shoulder and hopping up towards His neck.
“WHAT DO YOU WANT, OROONIN?
Croagon’s ruined face looked angry, resentful.
“I SHOULD HAVE GUESSED YOU’D BE LURKING ABOUT SOMEWHERE.”
The raven cocked its head, opened its beak and issued a silent caw.
“I KNOW YOU ARE HERE, OROONIN. COME TO MEDDLE AGAIN?” The raven croaked a last time and then winged silently up towards the roof of the cavern and vanished from sight. Croagon laughed grimly at its departure. Then His huge head turned to the little mortal still watching Him in silence.
“YOU STILL HERE—WHY?”
“I would have answers.” Corin looked around but there was no sign of the raven.
“WHAT ANSWERS? HAVE A CARE, MORTAL. HAVE I NOT DONE ENOUGH? WHY SHOULDN’T I CRUSH YOU LIKE A BEETLE?”
“Who is my real father?” Corin demanded. “Why does the Huntsman hound me from dawn to dusk?”
“YOUR FATHER—OH YES, I SEE THAT NOW. HOW INTERESTING. SEEK HIM IN THE MOUNTAINS ABOVE DARKVALE.”
“Darkvale? I’ve heard that mentioned before.”
“STAY CLEAR OF THAT FOREST LEST YOU FALL PREY TO HER SNARES.”
“Her? And what of the Huntsman?” Croagon didn’t respond. He had sunk back into deep contemplation. Corin wondered if the Smith had forgotten he was there.
“Thanks for what you did,” Corin said after a minute gazing up. “I hope that you find peace in the days to come.”
Croagon said nothing and Corin realised it was time he went. Without a backwards glance he made for the postern leaving Smith and forge behind.
Corin felt exhausted, but willed his tired legs to keep moving as he trotted through the tunnel. As Corin loped the giant’s words pursued him like steely knives in his back. Her… Darkvale… in the coming weeks those two words would return to haunt him.
Corin ran. Behind him, back in the forge, a deep distant rumble like falling buildings announced Croagon slept at last. Corin shut out the voices in his head and sped on through the tunnel. He soon passed the place where they had found Tarin and entered into new passageways.
As he ran Corin marvelled at the intricate beauty of the many carvings on the walls. They were everywhere and, although it was much darker in here than outside in the cavern, Corin had just enough light to see his way ahead. The carvings were weird and alien yet beautiful to behold. Somehow they saddened him.
He forced his legs to move faster. The way narrowed, inclined and then levelled out again. The light faded darkening to gloom.
Corin hoped that he hadn’t lost his friends. Why didn’t they wait? He hadn’t been long talking to the Smith. Or had he? It was so hard to measure time in this subterranean world.
He recalled how Zallerak had fled the cavern once he had the Tekara in his grasp. That thought more than any other spurred Corin on. He was going to have to watch that wizard closer than ever now.
Aralais.
Corin wished he’d questioned the Smith about Zallerak’s motives, but then Croagon probably wouldn’t have told him anything. Certainly the Smith had no love for Zallerak’s people. But then He didn’t like His own lot either. Corin didn’t blame him. These immortals were a twitchy lot. Too much time to weave their webs. Corin had no problem with that. Just wished they’d leave him out of it.
At last the welcome sound of footsteps ahead. Relieved, Corin hurried to join the others. Ulani grinned, seeing Corin running to catch up.
“What kept you?” Ulani was limping but still managing to shift along at reasonable speed. The king was a mass of scars and dried blood, but his grin raffish as ever.
“You need a wash,” replied Corin. “I stayed behind to speak with Croagon.”
“Was it worth it?”
“Not really.”
“It never is. The High Gods love themselves and no one else. I don’t like any of them,” Ulani added after a moment.
“You’ve a profane tongue, my friend,” said Corin. “Be careful lest one of them be listening.”
“I care not. Lead on, Longswordsman.”
The tunnel seemed endless. As he passed, Corin saw that there were many entrances to either side. He wondered what hidden secrets those passages would reveal. Best not know.
Although it was tied securely to his belt, Zallerak jealously cradled the crown under the crook of his left arm, guarding it like a broody hen. Zallerak’s other hand gripped his spear, the harp secreted out of view.
Corin studied the bard’s body language from behind, wondering why he appeared so agitated. After all, they had achieved what they set out to do. As though aware Corin watched him, Zallerak picked up his pace, the blue cloak trailing behind like a cloud.
Behind Zallerak loped Bleyne followed closely by the young prince Tarin, his eyes still haunted and wary. Ulani kept up as best he could despite his leg causing him grief.
“You alright?” Corin asked the king.
“Fine—just getting older.”
Corin drew level with the prince. Now for some answers.
Tarin was handsome in a blond freckly, blunt-nosed kind of way. Large boned, he looked strong and might make a fine warrior one day. If he lived long enough. He had courage, his rashness following Corin up the stair was proof of that.
Corin guessed the youth had seen about seventeen winters. He prodded the boy’s shoulder.
“You’ve caused us a deal of trouble, prince.” Tarin’s eyes hurled daggers back at him. “Because of you Roman died. And for what! All Four Kingdoms are in turmoil. People are dying because of you and that fucking usurper!”
Tarin did not answer the accusation. His expression was hostile and his face red with emotion. Corin sensed the boy was about to erupt. He pressed further.
“How’s your conscience, Tarin? What’s up—lost your tongue?”
“Corin an Fol, it is not your job to question the prince!” Zallerak yelled back at him. “Tarin has paid a high price for his actions. He must come to terms with his guilt. The will of Caswallon is not easy to thwart. Give the boy a break.” Corin desisted but the prince still glared at him.
“I will make amends,” Tarin vowed, stony-faced.
“We’ll see,” responded Corin. He winked at Ulani who’d been watching the exchange with interest and then turned his attention to the gloomy passage ahead.
The path led arrow-straight for what seemed miles. Still the passages branched off into blackness on either side. They were all weary now. Worn out by stress and travail. Zallerak looked shattered.
Corin wondered how Ulani kept the pace up. The king never complained though Corin could tell he was in pain. His own legs felt like lead weights and he wasn’t wounded.
It was dark in the passage; there were fewer veins of crystal on this side of the mountain. Time dragged on. Corin started to question if they’d ever escape from this labyrinth or were going around in circles and at some point would arrive back at that dark lakeshore. Perish the thought.
The stuffy gloom of these catacombs was weighing on everyone. The only sounds the soft thud of their footsteps and dripping water coming from somewhere far above.
Corin had lost all sense of time; he had no idea whether it was day or night outside. It felt as though they had been underground for a very long time. Perhaps they had, and time passed differently under these mountains. Corin drove such cheerless thoughts from his head and kept walking.
When at last bright light revealed the southern entrance up ahead, Corin felt a delirious flood of relief. Tarin shouted and Ulani grinned—even Bleyne smiled. Corin kept a hand on Clouter’s hilt as they hastened to the entrance.
A huge wrought iron door hung half open. Neglected, its hinges rusted and skewed by the years. They passed through the gap between door and frame, emerging happily into the light.
Corin squinted, allowing his eyes adjust to southern sunlight. At his side Ulani was sitting in the sun grumbling about flies. Bleyne was scanning the terrain and Tarin stood blinking in the heat. Zallerak appeared as impatient as ever.
Corin glanced about. They stood on the edge of a wide level plain. Reddish sand, stone and rocks faded into shimmering distance. A mile off to the right were stubby trees offering protection from prying eyes.
“Those are the trees I mentioned to Tamersane,” Ulani said. “Best we go see if he’s awake.”
Chapter 38
The Crimson Elite
A jingle of harness announced Tamersane had seen them coming and jumped into action. “About bloody time,” he muttered, leading the horses toward them. “I’ve had all manner of aggravation with these beasts. That and Permian soldiers creeping about.” Tamersane had obviously been waiting a considerable time.
“How long has it been?” Corin enquired.
“Weeks,” Tamersane replied. Ulani raised an eyebrow at that. “Well, almost two days—but it felt like fucking weeks. I’ve been bored shitless perched under those trees like some lovesick buzzard. How did it go under the mountain? Do you have the crown all fixed and new?”
“Very exciting,” responded Corin. “And yes, the Tekara is whole again, and no, I don’t have it. He does.” Corin motioned toward Zallerak standing a few yards distant observing the desert.
“Good. That’s good! I found his horse by the way, roaming on that mountain path a mile or so beyond the place where we parted. And did I mention this region’s crawling with crimson elite? They could turn up at any moment.” Tamersane cast a questioning glance in Tarin’s direction. “Is that young Prince Tarin? He’s grown since last I saw him. I suppose it’s good that he’s still alive, but he looks a bit sick. What’s his problem?”
“Don’t ask,” Corin replied and Tamersane shrugged. Tarin ignored them both. The prince was sulking.
They mounted without further ado. Prince Tarin shared a saddle with Bleyne, the lightest of the riders. They passed the provisions around and drank deeply from the gourds, Tamersane having replenished them at the nearest creek. Corin had forgotten how thirsty he was, he and Ulani had long since drained their own vessels.
“Which way now?” Tamersane asked Corin.
“I guess east past these mountains then north, but ask Zallerak—he’s the one in a hurry.” And Zallerak was. Without a backwards glance he kicked his steed into motion, guiding the beast out from the trees. The others followed.
They rode in single file keeping close to the hem of the nearest mountain. The glare from those dazzling slopes half blinded them. The Crystal Mountains no longer inspired Corin. They’d achieved what they set out to do and he just wanted to be gone from here.
By late afternoon they reached the eastern flank of the last height. Ahead lay flatness, sand and stone—the occasional weird, twisted tree breaking the monotony. They crested a small rise and reined in, taking a break and gazing around.
“We have company,” Bleyne said after a few minutes. He had been watching the way they’d just come. The others joined him and groaned.
A large troop of crimson-cloaked horsemen had rounded a crag to their west.
“Get down!” Corin hissed but it was too late. They’d already been seen.
Lances at the tilt, the elite whooped and hooted closing on their quarry. Clouds of dust filled the sky behind as they thundered closer. Corin and Ulani exchanged a weary glance.
“It would be nice,” observed Corin as he launched his aching hide up onto Thunderhoof’s sweating saddle, “if just once, we could have a break from all this hair pulling and rushing around.”
“You’d only get bored,” grinned Ulani. “Time to go!”
They spurred their steeds forward, beating a brisk course away from the mountains. The enemy was gaining fast, their spear tips blazing in the golden sunlight, and their hoarse shouts carrying far across the wind.
Crossbow bolts whirred above their heads as they dug in their heels and drove their steeds ever harder. One passed clean through Zallerak’s cloak. The bard didn’t notice it. Corin questioned why they were riding due south into open hostile country ins
tead of north. Again he had to rely on Zallerak’s lead.
Behind them the shadow of the mountains shrank with distance. Ahead were only sand and sky and hot arid wind. Zallerak led them, his silvery mane wild and dishevelled. The bard was yelling something but Corin couldn’t hear what it was.
A noise buzzed Corin’s ear. A quarrel pierced his desert robe and lodged in his saddle pommel, nearly skewering him from behind and missing his groin by an inch.
Shite.
“They’re gaining on us!” Ulani yelled from behind. “We’d better seek cover in those rocks and hold them off!”
The king pointed to their left. Corin saw a broken tumble of pinkish stones a mile or so to the southeast. Without a word he guided Thunderhoof in that direction.
“Not that way, you idiots!” Zallerak’s cry was shrill and he was shaking his spear vigorously. Corin was about to yell ‘why?’ when he saw a score of elite emerging from the rocks ahead. Once again they had entered a trap. And more horsemen had appeared ahead of them hastening to cut off their retreat, whilst behind the pursuing riders swiftly closed the gap. This wasn’t looking good.
Zallerak reined in, his eyes manic and staring.
“Make a fence around me—and quickly!” Zallerak ordered. “I’ll need a little time to prepare a surprise for these fools. I can do without this crap, I’ve had a hard enough day as it is.” The bard grabbed a startled Tarin and yanked him one-handed from Bleyne’s horse. “You can assist me, boy,” he told the gaping prince. “Up to now you’ve done nothing but sleep.”
The four fighters formed a mounted guard around Zallerak and the prince, their weapons facing outwards. Corin spat in the dust and glared at the approaching riders.
The elite eased their mounts to a walk. They approached in precise order, spears levelled, tanned faces haughty beneath their shiny helms.
“Arrogant bastards,” Corin muttered.
“That they are,” responded Ulani. “Good fighters though, when not spooked by sorcery.”
“Let us hope Zallerak does something soon,” Tamersane added without much confidence.
