Shattered Hopes

by Ulff Lehmann

  A shocked “No!” escaped the idiot noble’s mouth.

  Mireynh turned and looked at him. “Like Lord, like men?” he asked again.

  “Yes,” said Argram through gritted teeth.

  “Well then, all accused will receive thirty lashes, including Duncan Argram!”

  CHAPTER 28

  Rheanna felt as if she would fall asleep at any moment. For the better part of almost two days the Riders had labored alongside the masons, workers from Camlanh, and even a few souls from Amargh. The people from Amargh, their families on their way to Dunthiochagh, had abandoned their homes when their children had gone east with General Kerral’s forces a few weeks earlier. Friends in Camlanh had given them shelter, but with Chanastardhian reinforcements gathering in the north, many refused to live under Herascor’s dominion. She could hardly blame them; after all, the people south of the Flannardh knew through contact with their northern neighbors just what it was like to call Chanastardh home.

  Ralgon, Ralchanh; the similarity of the two names had managed to keep her mind occupied during the chiseling, and hammering, throughout this whole boring routine. Justiciar Amhlaidh Ralchanh, dead so many years, had been her father’s friend, and a royal judge. Was this Ralgon related or was the similarity just a coincidence? The question echoed through her mind like the hammer blows that reverberated across the plateau. Dull, repeating fragments that, in the end, came together to create a whole. For now, all she had was the curious similarity of names.

  With a tired yawn, she dropped her tools and stretched. There was a time for everything, and now was the time to take a break. She caught Briog’s glance and the twitching of his lips and tried to twist her yawn into a smile. She failed.

  “How’s the arms, princess?” he asked, putting his own chisel and hammer to the ground.

  By now all the refugees knew who she was and were no longer distracted by the title, not that it meant much. The crown princess of Haldain was just as dead as her parents. “Arms still attached,” she replied, although at the moment the ache in her shoulders made her wish otherwise.

  “Think we’ll find that sword?”

  “Someone must’ve carried it off,” she said.

  “Lucky bugger, if that blade’s so good Nerran has us hunting for it.”

  A cramp started to form in her right leg. She stood, put pressure on it and used the motion to stretch her tired arms once more. Muscles popped back into place, and a relieved moan escaped her lips. “Yeah, well, we wasted some time finding it.”

  Briog shrugged. “You have any idea why the Chosen is so keen on getting a sword?”

  Picking up a wooden wedge, she retrieved her hammer. The masons had shown them how to place them properly, so that the slightest tap was enough to offset an avalanche. “No,” she replied, putting the wedge into the opening she had created. A few strokes of the hammer and everything would be set here.

  Just as her tool’s head struck the timber, the earth began to shake. All over the range the sounds of people working stopped. Rheanna halted, looked around. “Someone start the avalanche already?” she muttered. Her question was too quiet for anyone to hear, but before she could repeat it, she heard Nerran’s voice bark across the area.

  “Who the bleeding Scales is shooting prematurely?” He was answered with silence. Apparently, none of them had triggered a landslide. “Come on, you bastards! Who was it?” No hammer fell, nobody seemed to be doing any work, and a moment later the mountain shook again. “Bloody Scales!” Nerran cursed. Now his voice was closer to her.

  He rounded a boulder, and she saw the worried look on his face. Most likely his thoughts were with the people still crowding through Shadowpass. He stumbled as the earth shook again. This time, however, she felt as if the tremor was slighter. Not that she was sure of this estimation. Nerran climbed back to his feet, wiped dirt from his rear and stomped determinedly toward her. His face contorted into a worried frown, once at her side he surveyed their surroundings. The sun was dipping to the west, so he had to cup a hand over his eyes to discern what was happening on the other side. Apparently, everything was to his satisfaction. He glanced down at her handiwork, nodded, satisfied, and turned toward Briog’s position, when the earth wobbled again.

  It was only a slight tremor this time, and none of those Rheanna saw were hard-pressed to remain upright. Again, Nerran scanned their surroundings, his gaze halting on the rock formation he had just passed. Her eyes did a pass on the area as well, and while she was still wondering why the Paladin was so focused on the rock, she saw a figure peel itself away from the stone. Quite sure her mouth was as open as her eyes, she stared on, hearing Nerran curse beside her.

  “Gods,” he muttered. Then he said, “Lads, lasses, this is a moment you will tell your grandchildren about.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t believe it.”

  Neither did she. Sure, she had heard stories about the stonechildren, the lords of the mountains and the bowels of the soil, but to actually see a dwarf was otherworldly. “By the gods,” she heard herself exclaim. To her left and right others had joined the astonished murmur, but the stonechild seemed uninterested in his audience.

  “I never had the patience to meet them,” Nerran said, awe in his voice. She knew exactly how he felt, seeing living rock slowly scrutinizing its surroundings was breathtaking. To see such a figure of myth reveal itself to non-supplicants was practically unheard of, and somehow this small fact registered in her mind.

  Before her usually self-possessed leader could react, Rheanna strode forward, unsheathing her sword. The dwarf’s gaze focused on her, and it seemed as if its face—if the being had a face—was frowning in confusion. One of its long pillar-like arms rose, and the end—its hand?—formed a ball. Did it feel threatened by her? She didn’t know. She wasn’t even sure if it was in her power to scratch it. Behind her she heard others stirring from their trance, people muttering about asking the dwarf for a gift. Now she understood why the Smiths had withdrawn from the world: greed. Everyone wanted an artifact crafted by them, but if they had chosen to live apart from the world of man and only respond to months and months of fasting and meditation, why had this one shown itself?

  Her hands were still tired from carving into stone, but she steadied her sword and turned to face the muttering folk behind her. If this dwarf had decided to show itself, there had to be a reason, and it was most certainly not because it wanted to offer its services. “Halt!” she called out loud, not to the stonechild, but to her comrades.

  The approaching Riders and workers—the suspicious fellow Riders were slower to advance as it was—hesitated, some scowling at her.

  “You can’t have it to yourself!” someone shouted. “I want it to give me a dagger!” and “Their art is priceless!”

  “Shut up, you greedy bastards!” she snarled. To prevent any further complaints, she continued swiftly, “No one will get anything from the dwarf! Thus, it has been for the ages and thus it will go on! You want something made for you? Go to a Place of Contemplation and work for it!”

  “It’s here, we can ask it now!” That sounded like a villager. How stupid were these people? They were fleeing for their lives and still they thought of treasures.

  “Please, master dwarf! I want a sword.”

  “I beg of you only a dagger, as an heirloom!”

  Nerran had shaken off his astonishment. He headed for her, blade in hand. For a moment she feared he might do battle with her, but when he reached her side, he turned to face the others, shouting, “Listen up, you idiots! You may see it, you may talk to it, but you will not ask it for favors, understood?” Now Briog joined them. Nerran inclined his head toward her and whispered, “Quick thinking, lass.” To the workers he said, “We’ll cut you down if you upset it!”

  “It… is… him,” a deep voice rumbled behind them.

  Rhea cast a quick glance over her shoulder and saw the dwarf as it—he, she reminded herself—had been, the maul-like fist still at the ready. To her it sounded as
if the dwarf’s mere voice was more akin to a landslide than actual speech. When she looked forward again, she saw the other Riders had taken up perimeter positions, also guarding those too greedy for their own good. Other workers had retreated a few steps, still awed by the stonechild’s presence. Then the realization of what she was protecting sunk in. Behind her stood one of those who had lived when gods had fought dragons, one of the Smiths who had created the gods’ weapons. She swallowed, glanced back again, and somehow knew the dwarf was regarding her. There were no eyes, and she wasn’t even sure if he had a face. Was he winking at her? In her home, in Ma’tallon, even in Dunthiochagh she knew statues, worked stone, with more facial expression than this animated lump of rock. Unlike those pieces the being behind her was alive.

  “Speak,” the dwarf said. Even though it was only one single syllable, it seemed to take an eternity to finish.

  She trusted in Lliania, the goddess had guided her well, but now—faced with a being of legend –her usually keen mind was blank. How did the dwarf speak anyway? There was no mouth. “Hello,” she finally said, and felt stupid the moment the word was out.

  Nerran and Briog, to her left and right, snorted.

  “Hello,” the dwarf replied.

  Still embarrassed, Rheanna found herself giggling like a little girl. She was born a princess, knew how to behave herself! She took a steadying breath and turned around fully. Now, with her giggles stopped, she was still at a loss for words. What did one say to a dwarf?

  “I… am… Hranthor,” the dwarf said.

  “I’m Rheanna, daughter of Cadoghan of Haldain,” she replied, acting more out of habit than conscious thought.

  “Hello… Rheanna… daughter… of… Cadoghan… of… Haldain. Who… are… you?”

  Confused, she repeated her name.

  “Yes… but… who… are… you?”

  She glanced at Nerran who only shrugged. Briog didn’t even meet her eye. “I don’t understand.”

  “Everyone… is,” Hranthor said. “I… am… Hranthor.”

  “I’m Rheanna,” she replied on impulse.

  “So… you… are… Speaker… of… the Lawgiver.”

  How did he know that? How could he know that? It wasn’t as if she wore her badge of office. She was about to ask Hranthor how he knew, when the dwarf spoke again, “I… can… see… her… mark… on… you.” She had Lliania’s mark on her? What the Scales was he talking about? What mark? While Hranthor ground through the next sentence, she pondered that question. Aside from a few birthmarks there was not even a scar on her body. “I… have… known… her… I… can… feel… her… presence.” Listening to the dwarf was tiring, and she wished she could speed up the Smith’s speech. At least she had her answer. “I… found…”

  “Why are you here?” Nerran interrupted.

  “Rude,” said the dwarf.

  “I worship Lesganagh, can’t blame me for being direct.”

  “I… do… not… feel… his… mark… on… you.”

  “I’m no priest, just one of his servants,” the Paladin said impatiently.

  Rheanna understood his impatience, while one waited on the dwarf’s reply, one could boil water and prepare some tea. No wonder so few people asked to have weapon or armor made for them, with this sort of waiting most people would go mad before they ever got what they wanted. Maybe those who got the finished items were already insane before they got to petition for something.

  “You… want… to… heal… the…scar?”

  “Heal what?” Nerran answered.

  “You… have… prepared… for… the… scar… to… be… filled.” Patience, she reminded herself, though the lack of any sort of inflection, nuances or timbre was gnawing on her nerves. “You… want… to… heal… the… scar,” stated Hranthor, looking—if that was the term—from the workers to Nerran and finally to her.

  “Oh, you mean the pass?” Briog exclaimed, beaming.

  “Yes.”

  Given time she would have figured out what the dwarf had meant, but thanks to her comrade’s timely enlightenment, she could focus on other matters. The only problem was she did not know what to focus on. None of the others were working, their attention on the dwarf. If this conversation kept on the way it was going, the second barrier in Shadowpass would take another week to be done. How could she encourage Hranthor to speak more quickly? Like most people, she knew nothing of dwarves, except those facts retold in the stories of the gods. Those she had heard a long time ago; barely remembered tales told to her and her brothers when she had been young. Before the rebels had stormed the castle. What had her nurse told them? The firelings had warred with the gods, and the dwarves had thrown in their lot with Lesganagh and the others, forging weapons and armor.

  No, that was pointless mythology that might well be fabrication. Only the gods knew for certain, and every word that man claimed came from the gods was in all likelihood lies. The Lawspeakers had taught her diplomacy, human diplomacy, but no one spoke with dwarves. Aside from those addlebrained enough to ask them for smith work. So how should she talk to such a being? It was stone, and the only thing she knew of stone was how to shape it, and she would not take a chisel to Hranthor.

  Right now, the stonechild answered one of Nerran’s questions. Unfortunately, it was not one of those yes-or-no-affairs and so she had even more time to consider her options. Not that there were many. Any attempt of leading the dwarf into a verbal trap was doomed in that any conversation would wear them down before they even had a chance to tire the eternal rock he was made of. Maybe she was approaching the problem from the wrong angle. Maybe Hranthor was capable of speaking more quickly, and he was testing them. It certainly wouldn’t be the first test. Petitioners for weapons and such had to meditate and fast for months to prove their worth. Maybe what they were experiencing now was akin to that? How did one get a rock to reveal its secrets, she asked herself. She turned and looked around, there certainly were enough stones surrounding her.

  Then she saw it. Persistence, like water, or the chisel!

  With that insight, she faced the dwarf once more. None of them had the time for the water approach, so the only thing left was the chisel. “Hranthor,” she said, interrupting the Smith. “Why don’t we cut through all this gravel and come right to the point?” She waited for a response, but the dwarf merely regarded her. After a moment, she continued, “Neither of us want this babbling to continue, do we?” Still no reply. “We are here to prevent an enemy from reaching the city to the south.” She pointed toward Dunthiochagh. “We are trying to keep the Chanastardhians away.” Was that a ripple on his skin? “So, our mission is important and we can best do without all this pausing.” She waited.

  “Go on,” the dwarf said. The first words that were not interrupted by long breaks.

  “Well, since there is no Place to Petition your people in this part of the Shadowpeaks, I can only assume that you came from some other place.” Suddenly it all made sense.

  “That is true.”

  “So, with your confirmation, I take the liberty to conclude that your mission here is of similar importance to your people.”

  “Indeed.” Hranthor stood still, no rippling of the surface, and since she had no idea what sorts of expressions rock could go through, she thought it safe to say he was not making faces.

  “Why have you come here, and what do you want with us?” she demanded, sheathing her sword and planting her fists in her sides.

  The silence, as everyone held their breath, was deadly. Only the wind created a bit of background noise. The dwarf stood there, and Rheanna wished once again that she was able to read any sort of reaction on the granite visage, but as with so many other wishes, this one was not granted. Waiting for a reply, now that they knew the stonechild could speak at a decent pace, was murder. None of them went back to work, though. The sight of the dwarf was far too enticing to return to driving wedges into stone.

  “I came to warn the guardians,” Hranthor finally said. />
  “Guardians?” Nerran echoed. “What guardians?”

  “Those who guard the Hold.”

  That reply made little sense but judging from Nerran’s intake of breath he knew what the dwarf talked about. “What do you want to warn the guardians about?” the Paladin asked.

  A slight pause, and then Hranthor answered, “We’re besieged. Someone tries to break the alliance of the north and destroy us. We need help.”

  The dwarf had come all the way from the frozen parts of Chanastardh to warn them of… what? “And why come here?” Nerran demanded.

  “Because the guardians will be next, and once the gods lose us, their oldest ally, who will help in the defense of the hold?” If rocks could look sad, Rheanna would have sworn the dwarf did so now.

  Then the significance of what Hranthor had just said reached her mind. “Are you saying?” she stuttered.

  Nerran and Briog were basically asking the same question. Luckily, they were the only ones close enough to hear the dwarf’s reply.

  “This remains between us!” Nerran hissed.

  “They try to destroy the crystals, they try to kill us.” Now Hranthor sounded worried. “We need help.” He opened his maul-fist and revealed a sword. “I found this. It belongs to one who has done terrible deeds and atones for them. It knows. It remembers. It has things yet left undone.”

  They had been looking for a sword, was it possible that Hranthor held the blade for which they had been searching? “To whom does it belong?” Rheanna inquired a fraction quicker than Nerran. She had a fairly good idea about the sword’s owner; still she had to be sure.