Iron Axe

by Steven Harper

  “What are you doing here?” he growled. “Did someone scrape you off a boot?”

  The queen narrowed her perfect eyes. “He isn’t truly here, Hunin. This is a projection. From my own throne room, if I’m not mistaken.” With a fluid move, she swept her scepter through Danr’s chest. It passed through him without a ripple. Danr felt nothing. “The time is very close now. Have you found your head, boy?”

  Danr stared at her. He had to answer, but he didn’t understand the question. “What are you talking about?”

  “Poor child. Your head is made of clay and your brain is made of the cattle manure you shoveled up,” she said with a tiny smile. “I mean the Axe, child. Did you find the Axe head yet?”

  “No,” he was forced to blurt. “How did you know we were looking for it?”

  “The sprites are good at ferreting out secrets, and you travel so slow, slower than the rest of your kind.” From anyone else, this would have sounded like a snarled curse, but from her, it sounded like silk gliding across marble. “Seek it all you like. You’re short on time, and soon it won’t matter what you find. When we’re done down here, we’ll find you up there.”

  “This isn’t right,” Danr said. “Lord Hunin, you’ve joined with the people who have taken thousands of slaves from the Kin and—”

  “I miss Papa!” Rudin interrupted. He was standing between Hunin and White Halli’s chair. “He’s the monster who hurt Papa!”

  Hunin’s face was hard. “He did, and his kind will pay.”

  Something about the boy felt wrong. His words were too careful, too ready. And what was such a young child doing here, anyway? Hunin should have left him at home, or back in their tent. In a blink, Danr closed his right eye and looked at Rudin.

  The boy’s face and body twisted. He swirled into a formless blur of light and chaos. A shape-shifting sprite. Danr slumped his shoulder. He should have guessed. He should have checked. Rudin, whose badly timed words had stopped Danr from forging an alliance between the humans and the Stane in the first place. His words hadn’t been so badly timed after all.

  “When did Rudin die, Lord Hunin?” Danr asked quietly.

  “I am king, you lying whelp,” Hunin barked.

  “That’s right,” the queen said smoothly. “He’s nothing but the son of a troll’s whore. He shouldn’t even be speaking to someone with your greatness.”

  “I miss my papa,” the false Rudin said, sniffling.

  “You’re not looking at the truth,” Danr said through clenched teeth.

  Hunin drew his sword and pointed it at Danr’s throat. His black mourning ring weighed his finger down. The other elves watched intently but made no move to interfere. “You destroyed my son’s life, Trollboy,” he said. “Now you’ll pay. You can’t save your slave slut. You can’t save your people. You can’t save yourself. You were born worthless, you lived worthless, and when you die, you will slink into Halza’s icy presence and beg to drink from her cesspool.”

  The words should have pierced Danr and slashed him to the bone. But even with both eyes open, he saw nothing but a small, frightened man driven by pain and desperation, a man who had missed true greatness by inches. Danr felt more pity for him than anything else. He felt the truth welling up inside him, and even though no one had asked a question, he spoke.

  “You could have been a great king,” he said quietly. “Instead you won’t live to see the sun set.”

  “You make threats?” Hunin was almost howling.

  “I’m leaving,” Danr said. “But first, have you thought about who should give your grandson the warrior’s blessing?”

  “I—what?”

  “He’s a scary monster!” Rudin said. “He frightens me!”

  “This is Rudin’s first war, isn’t it? He should have Fell’s blessing from his father.” Danr gave a hard grin. “But I nearly killed his father. And your grandson will go into battle without Fell’s blessing on his head. Too bad. Human.”

  “Listen here.” Gwylph raised her scepter, but Hunin was too fast for her. He raised his sword to Rudin and reached out with his left hand.

  “Fell’s blessing be upon you as you enter—” Hunin’s left hand, and the iron ring on it, touched the top of Rudin’s head before the boy could react. Rudin screamed. His face and body melted into liquid light. His scream melted into a liquid gurgle. Hunin snatched his hand back as the sprite slumped into a squirming mass on the ground.

  “Rolk and Olar,” the queen muttered.

  Hunin’s mouth fell open. Danr closed his right eye and saw the pieces falling into place for him, watched him realize how one of the slavers had killed Rudin during one of the many trips through Skyford, how one of the sprites who always accompanied the slavers had taken the boy’s place, how the sprite had carefully goaded Hunin with both words and Fae glamours into refusing an alliance with the Stane, into assembling armies and marching them to Palana, all to benefit the Fae. But for what reason? Hunin didn’t know, and Danr couldn’t fathom it, either.

  White Halli gasped from his chair. His eyes cleared and he blinked rapidly. “What’s happened? Where—?”

  Hunin spun, his sword still out. Shock whitened his face. The soldiers holding up the litter chair hastened to put it down. “Halli! How?”

  “I didn’t hurt him as much as everyone thought,” Danr said, and the load of guilt he’d been carrying evaporated into air. “The sprite was keeping him under a glamour so you’d ally with the Fae and war against the Stane. You broke the spell when you touched the sprite with iron.”

  “Father?” Halli struggled against the bindings, and the soldiers worked to cut him free, though he couldn’t stand with the splint on his leg. “What’s happening? How did I get here? Where’s Rudin?”

  Hunin turned to the queen, his face filled with conflicting emotions—fury, pain, horror. “You! How dare you play with me this way!”

  “It would have been easier to replace you yourself with a sprite, my king”—her curled lip let him know what she thought of the title—“but only a human with your charisma and speaking skills could have assembled such an army for us, and we thank you most kindly. Can you understand? You Kin always have a role to play in the wars of your betters. You just need to be persuaded to play it.”

  “Always tricking us, always preying upon us.” Hunin was ignoring Danr now. “Our alliance is ended! I will take my army to the Stane, and—”

  The queen touched him with her scepter. Hunin dropped to his knees, limp as a pile of rags. His eyes went shiny, and a line of drool slid from the corner of his mouth. He looked the way White Halli had a moment ago.

  “Father!” Halli tried to stand but couldn’t. The queen motioned at him. He and the soldiers went limp as well.

  “You underestimate your importance, Hunin, now that your army has arrived.” Gwylph touched the injured sprite with her scepter. It sprang into the air and swirled into a new shape—Hunin in his scarlet robe and gold crown. “Very good, RikiTak Who Glides Over Water. You’ll do for the next few moments. As for you—” She turned to Danr. “You are—”

  But Danr pulled his hand back from the projection. With another little wrench, he found himself back in the throne room. Everyone was gathered around him, and he became aware that Aisa and Kalessa were pulling on his arms, but they hadn’t been able to budge him.

  “I’m all right,” he said. “You can stop.”

  They let go. Aisa demanded, “What happened?”

  He told them, in terse sentences.

  “Huh,” said Talfi. “That’s … I don’t know what that is.”

  “The humans are here because the Fae want them here,” Danr said, “but I don’t know what they’re planning. The queen has also figured out where we are.”

  “Then we must find the head quickly,” Kalessa said. “Do you know where it is, elf?”

  “I don’t,” Ranadar admitted. “Father always said it wasn’t a toy for children.”

  Aisa held out the haft. It pulled at her, and s
he followed it toward the high, thin chair that made up the throne. Beside the throne on a small table was a box the size of a small treasure chest. It looked to be made of sheets of jade inlaid with gold leaves. The haft came around of its own accord, pointing at the box like a compass orienting on north. Danr came to stand beside her. Outside, the stars had come together into a single, bright point of light.

  “There,” she breathed. “In there.”

  Kalessa was standing at one of the doors with her sword out. “No one is coming. Be quick!”

  Danr stood before the box, not quite believing it. After all this time, it didn’t seem possible or real. The box didn’t even have a lock. Aisa was standing beside him with the haft, her face looking tight with eagerness and apprehension. In the end, he had done all this for her.

  And he couldn’t imagine doing anything else. Because he loved her. Oh yes, he did, and he couldn’t imagine living without her by his side.

  But she had never once said how she felt about him. Suddenly he had to know. He had done all this—fought White Halli, become an exile, faced the Three, spoken to Death, Twisted to Xaron—because he loved her, couldn’t imagine a world without her in it. None of it, not even the Axe itself, meant a thing if she didn’t feel the same way. His hands trembled and his heart was heavy. He was tired of walling himself off. Tired of running away. Tired of being divided. The truth always hurt, but he had to know it, and he had to know it now. He pulled back from the box.

  “What is it?” Aisa asked tightly.

  “We should not wait,” Kalessa said from the door. “The stars—”

  Danr swallowed. It had to be fast, and it had to be now. “How do you feel about me, Aisa?”

  “What?” She looked startled and puzzled both.

  “How do you feel about me?” His heart was pounding and his breath came in short puffs. “I came all this way—we came all this way—together, and now I need to know. How do you feel about me?”

  “I … this isn’t the time, Hamzu.”

  She was avoiding his eyes. That meant only one thing. His heart became hollow clay in his chest. All right, then. When this was over, he would walk away. He could go under the mountains, or perhaps join the orcs. It didn’t matter. Nothing did.

  But how much of this was his fault? Had he told her how he felt? He searched his memory. He had not. But how could he, who was always forced to tell the painful truth, tell Aisa even a lovely truth without causing pain?

  And then he knew.

  “Danr,” he said quietly.

  “I’m sorry?” She looked up at him.

  “My name.” His voice was husky and thick with emotion. “It’s Danr. The name my mother gave me. The name I’ve never said aloud to anyone. I can only say it to people I love.”

  She stood up on tiptoe. He leaned down, and their lips met. The drums swelled, and the entire world rushed through him, propelling him upward, higher and higher until his soul joined the stars. For the first time in his life, he felt complete, whole and undivided. He pressed himself to her and felt his strength merge with hers until they were the only ones, god and goddess, in the entire universe. Nothing finer could come after this. When they parted, there were tears in Aisa’s eyes.

  “Danr,” she said, and the sound was music. “I love you. I always have.”

  “And I love you! By the Nine, I love you.” Danr picked her up and swung her around. She gave a breathless little laugh. Aisa loved him! And the world was a fine place, drums and axes and all.

  “But—” Aisa added.

  Danr set her down, wary and unhappy again. “But what?”

  “But I’m not ready for you. Not yet.” Her face softened. “I need more time to sort myself out. If that’s all right with you.”

  Oh. That was all? Relief came back to him, and he felt as if he were floating. She still loved him. It was all that mattered. “I can wait forever,” he said, “as long as I know you’re coming. And that’s the truth.”

  “We should move,” Kalessa said.

  “Yes!” With new energy, Danr opened the jade box. For a dreadful moment, he thought it might be empty, that this was a trick, but inside he found the head of a plain double-bladed battle-axe. He drew it out. Ranadar sucked in his breath and drew back. The head was battered and pockmarked, barely a foot across, with a cruel-looking spike set into the top. At first, Danr thought rust streaked its surface, but then he realized it was ancient blood.

  What gives you the right?

  “Give me the haft,” Danr said shakily.

  Aisa passed it over. Everyone, including Kalessa, gathered around to stare in awe. When the head came into his hand, Danr felt it pull toward the head like a lodestone toward iron. Outside the window, the two stars grew brighter in their merging.

  “We are changing the course of the world,” Kalessa breathed.

  “The Nine and the Three move through us,” Ranadar said.

  Danr let out a breath and slid the wood into the socket at the bottom of the head.

  Nothing happened. He looked at Aisa, who gave a small shake of her head by way of a shrug. Danr swung the Axe carefully once or twice. It seemed small in his hand, more like a hatchet, and not at all potent. It didn’t seem like the weapon that had—

  The Axe wrenched him around. New knowledge flooded Danr’s mind. The power, the third piece, was nearby, so close the Axe could almost touch it. The Axe thirsted for it, wanted to drink it in and become whole so it could do what it was forged to do—destroy.

  What gives you the right?

  Sweat broke out across Danr’s forehead. As the sun sank halfway beneath the horizon on the projection, the Axe’s spike pulled Danr clockwise around the circle until it was pointing.

  It pointed at Talfi’s heart.

  Aisa gave a small cry. Danr felt all the blood drain from his face in an icy wash, and his legs went weak beneath him. Talfi. The power was Talfi. Danr pulled back. It was too much, too big an idea, like trying to understand the sun itself. But it also made a terrible sense. Danr had just been avoiding the truth.

  Talfi’s blue eyes were wide. “It’s me? How can it be—no, it has to be me, doesn’t it?”

  “It was right there in front of us this whole time,” Danr said in a weak voice. On the projection table, the sprites were rushing about like shooting stars. “The Axe’s power keeps you alive, but it takes your memory every time you die. That’s why I couldn’t see you with my eye—you aren’t really there. You’ve been drawn to me as a friend from the beginning because the power somehow knew that I would find the Axe, even if you didn’t understand that.”

  Ranadar looked at Talfi in awe. “You’re the actual one. The squire they sacrificed a thousand years ago. It is your blood on that blade.”

  As if in response, the Axe swung itself at Talfi. Talfi jumped back with a yelp. For a moment, Danr saw Talfi on the floor, split in half, while the Axe drank his blood. Then the vision was gone.

  “The only way to fully remake the Axe,” Danr said in horror, “is to kill Talfi with it. How can we—”

  A spear point emerged from Talfi’s chest. Blood colored his tunic. Talfi looked down at his chest with a surprised look on his face. Then he crumpled to the floor.

  *

  “Talashka!” Ranadar flung himself to the floor beside Talfi. Aisa stared down at them, not comprehending what she was seeing. Talfi lay on the wooden floor, a floor she had once spent hours polishing, his face already pale. A scarlet pool spread beneath, and for a wild moment, Aisa thought she would be required to clean it up.

  Then Aisa heard a metallic sound. Vamath, the elven king, was standing in the doorway. The spear had come from his hand. Bronze links gleamed like gold in his armor, and his sunshine hair flowed carelessly down his back. His fine eyes and perfect face made her breath catch in her chest and her skin ache with desire even as her stomach roiled with nausea. After all these years, his smooth fingers, perfect in every way, would touch her face and make her shiver with happiness again. Be
hind Vamath came a troop of six elves in armor of their own.

  Danr—not Hamzu—roared. He rushed at Vamath in an avalanche of howling thunder, the Axe raised high. The king stepped smoothly aside at the last moment, and Danr slammed into the elves behind him. Three went down like ninepins. The others raised their swords. Kalessa’s sword flicked into the shape of a steel great sword and she charged. Ranadar stayed with Talfi’s body.

  Kalessa’s blade stabbed—and went through Vamath like empty air. His image vanished. Vamath, his true self, appeared behind Kalessa, and he cracked the back of her head with his pommel. She sprawled across the floor, dazed. The six elven guards piled on top of Danr. He struggled, and flung two of them off. The Iron Axe flew through the air, flipped end over end, and bit into the floor at Aisa’s feet with a thunk. Aisa held her breath in a panic. She wanted to fight, but she could no more have raised her hand against her former master than she could have slit her own wrists. Ranadar continued to weep over Talfi’s body.

  One of the guards hit Danr on the head again, and then again. The blows dazed him. King Vamath reached into the fight and stroked his face. The rage and fear left Danr, and he relaxed in the guards’ grip. Aisa recognized the signs, and horror washed over her in a black wave.

  “No,” she whispered. “Not him, too. Please, no.”

  But when Vamath stepped back, Danr followed him with utter adulation in his eyes. They had been wrong—his Stane blood hadn’t kept him immune after all.

  “How do you feel toward me, boy?” Vamath asked him.

  “You’re beautiful,” Danr said, his husky voice rising from a dream. “I adore you.”

  “Good,” Vamath said. “What’s happening to the Stane?”

  Danr shuddered hard. “I feel the drums. The doors are opening now. Right now. I want to be with them. But I love you more, master.”

  The awful words slammed into Aisa like a hammer made of stone. But she wanted even more for Vamath to pay attention to her. And she hated herself for it. Most of the injured guards were trying to recover. Two of them bound Kalessa’s hands. Vamath ignored Aisa and strode over to the projection table, which showed the last bit of sun vanishing from the horizon.