The Dwarven Wars

by Leah Cutter

  “They move!” he exclaimed. “How?” He didn’t see any clockwork or mechanism.

  “Magic, you idiot,” Racanta said. “We weren’t always dependent on your human gears and machinery.”

  “Sorry,” Dale said, though he wasn’t really. He’d seen magic, kind of, sort of, with his sister. This was a completely different thing. Not a transformation at all.

  “So where’s the bolt hole?” Denise said.

  Dale nodded. As fascinating as the pictures were, he’d never be able to understand them. There was no mechanism to take apart, no parts for him to learn about. Magic was a big black hole as far as he was concerned. Kind of like electricity. It just happened.

  “I don’t know where the escape hole is,” Racanta said. “Sebastian said the murals know the way.”

  The murals? But they looked like dumb animation, going through the same motions over and over again. They didn’t have intelligence, did they?

  Dale walked closer to the wall. The outlines continued to shimmer faintly, and still moved in predictable patterns. He took a step back. Were they pointing in a single direction? No. Some moved right to left, others left to right. They weren’t looking at a single item either.

  “Where’s the priest’s bolt hole? How do we escape?” Dale asked the two fairies who sat at a table and drank endless glasses of golden mead. The wings of the fairy on the right grew stronger as he drank, then weaker as he put his mug down. What did that mean? What was the story behind it?

  “How do we get out?” Dale heard his mom ask another of the pictures.

  But the walls remained silent.

  Ivan listened in shock as his leaders reported in.

  They’d been decimated.

  No, worse. Much worse. Not one in ten. More like one in three were now dead. And the wounded kept dying, even up here, out of that accursed fairy hole. Erasyl raced from one injured dwarf to the next, applying compresses, muttering spells, supplying them with herbed drinks, but they kept slipping away.

  Why?

  Ivan stood at the mouth of one of Kostya’s main tunnels. He’d planned on raiding the human Tinker next, however he wasn’t sure that any of his men could stomach more battle. Even Mitya, his head warrior, seemed shaken. And that dwarf had a mien of stone.

  Nothing had gone as planned since they’d left the old world.

  Was it a sign that the gods had turned their faces against Ivan’s cause?

  There wasn’t much more for Ivan to do tonight, though. He would walk one last time among the campfires, share the sorrow of his fighters, then sleep for a long, long time.

  A scout rushed up.

  Ivan’s stomach rolled, as it had when they’d been on the water. He clenched his teeth and kept the bile down.

  Now what?

  Then he looked at the dwarf who came striding up behind the scout.

  Curses be.

  It wasn’t one of his followers.

  No, it was one of Varlaam’s.

  Before Ivan could ask how the hell the dwarf had gotten here, the dwarvf called out loudly, “King Varlaam would like to meet you on the beach, to hear of your great battles.”

  Ivan pressed his lips together before he ordered Mitya to slaughter this upstart.

  His brother had lied to him. He hadn’t waited like the doddering old fool Ivan had believed him to be. No, he’d come here, to the New World, to see Ivan’s failures first hand. How much did Varlaam already know? How could Ivan hide his losses?

  Then another thought struck him.

  Varlaam on this shore also meant Varlaam’s staff. Maybe this day wouldn’t be a complete loss if Ivan could finally call the staff to him and use the power in it as it rightly should be used. Perhaps even save his men.

  Ivan quickly followed after Varlaam’s follower, new plots forming.

  Brett stirred as the dwarves closest to him left their posts, heading down toward the beach and their rendezvous point.

  Such a glorious day! So many lives he’d tasted, drunk down, snatched away.

  It was too bad those lives couldn’t sustain him. He wasn’t some ridiculous vampire, like in those human myths. While Brett was temporarily buoyed by all the power he’d absorbed, it wouldn’t last. By the morning, he’d be as ancient as ever.

  And the fairies were leaving. The battle had drawn them out, but the great death toll had shaken them. While they weren’t as long-lived as Brett and his kind, they still tended to live a handful of centuries. Many of the fairies who’d beenin the kingdom had been born in the old country and traveled with the humans to the New World.

  They were flying north, heading out of his territory. Soon all his land would be free of them.

  There were just the dwarves to deal with, now. Their death toll hadn’t been as great. And they weren’t as discouraged. They’d come to the New World, seeking a new kingdom.

  Brett was just going to have to let them know that they weren’t welcome, either.

  “How many warriors did you lose?” Varlaam asked again, incredulous.

  Really, how could Ivan be such a fool? How could he have failed, so? Though a part of Varlaam cheered quietly at Ivan’s losses. No warrior would follow his brother now.

  “It wasn’t the fairies!” Ivan insisted. “There’s something else here. Some foul magic that drains the life out of the stoutest dwarf with the smallest scratch!”

  “Nonsense,” Varlaam said. He’d never heard of such a thing.

  Though he did believe Ivan when he said that he’d been fighting all day. His brother’s fine beard still held blood, and his armor bore dents. His ax had been put to good use.

  But not good enough.

  “I know!” Ivan said. His sudden enthusiasm made Varlaam narrow his eyes. What lie was Ivan about to tell his brother now?

  “You should visit the men with your staff. See if you can heal them,” Ivan said.

  Varlaam grew very still. Did Ivan know that Varlaam couldn’t reach any power under the earth with his staff? That it still felt leaden and sluggish?

  “Maybe in the morning,” Varlaam said, trying to put his brother off.

  “No. Now. These are my followers, hurting. Why won’t you see to them?” Ivan asked.

  Even in the darkening evening Varlaam saw Ivan’s eyes held burning rage. “We’ve just arrived,” Varlaam said, stalling, “and my staff—”

  “Will not work here,” came a smooth voice through the night.

  Varlaam’s guards already had their axes in their hands, and brought them forward, menacingly.

  Then they seemed to freeze.

  “Now, now, there’s no need for that,” said the smooth voice.

  A dark figure stepped into the firelight. A burned man, one whose skin was like burnt leather. He had white hair that fell down to his waist, and golden hawk-eyes.

  “Who are you?” Varlaam asked, pleased that his voice didn’t stutter or break.

  “They call me the Old One. O’onakie. Or Brett, depending on your mood,” the creature said with a smile that showed sharp, pointed teeth.

  Varlaam shivered. He’d never heard of the o’onakie and had no idea what an Old One was. It must be some New World creature. Kostya had never mentioned it in his reports, either.

  “Were you the one responsible for the foul draining magic?” Ivan said. Fear hadn’t dampened his anger as he marched right up to the creature.

  “I am,” the Old One announced proudly. “You are not welcome in my territory. You must leave. Now.”

  “Now see here,” Varlaam started, walking forward.

  A negligent wave of the Old One’s hand bound Varlaam in what felt like hard steel.

  The Old One slunk over to where Varlaam stood, trapped. Every inch of the creature promised an untimely death.

  “I told Kostya that you were not welcome,” the Old One whispered. His words were carried on the wind—more magic that Varlaam didn’t understand. Every dwarf under Varlaam’s command as well as Ivan’s heard those words. “Yet you came.”<
br />
  Ivan gestured behind the Old One’s back. Varlaam stared at him, distracted for a moment. What was his brother doing?

  Oh. His staff. Varlaam should use his staff.

  “Kostya never mentioned you,” Ivan said, trying to get the creature’s attention back on him.

  Varlaam dug deeply for power, energy, even the slightest spark. He had to be able to pull up something, infuse his staff.

  The Old One shrugged and turned his back on Varlaam, turning back to Ivan.

  Suddenly, Varlaam found he could move. He knew it wasn’t due to his own puny magical abilities, but that the Old One had released him. But he didn’t have to tell Ivan that. Instead, Varlaam pointed the top of his staff toward the Old One, willing it to start glowing.

  The fire that sprang up surprised him. He gasped, then willed more power into the staff. He’d give this Old One a taste of true power.

  Denise walked from one mural to the next, pleading with each. “Please, show us the way out.” She was sweating in her rain jacket, her legs rubbery from all the running they’d done. Racanta had at least gotten them some water, but the only true relief for Denise would be to see a large sign marked, “Exit”.

  The pictures fascinated her. She didn’t understand why a ghostly figure drinking unending glasses of mead mesmerized her, but it did. She found herself staring instead of asking again and again.

  Dale didn’t seem trapped. Instead, he ran his fingers over the top of the fireplace mantel, down along the sides, obviously looking for a hidden spring or lever. He even tried looking inside the burning pit, but the flames challenged him, reaching out to burn him.

  Racanta finally stepped up to Dale and said, “Tinker, we need to try another exit.”

  Was it just Denise’s imagination, or had the pair who were drinking suddenly sat up straighter?

  She thought back for a moment. Hadn’t Sebastian said something about telling the murals? Tinker?

  “Yes, this is the Tinker,” Denise said, moving toward Dale.

  All of the pictures shifted. They didn’t grow more solid—the fairy figures still were merely outlined in shimmering silver. But they did all change slightly.

  Denise had the impression that the walls were finally paying attention to them.

  “This is the Tinker,” Denise said again, more loudly, reaching out and taking her son’s hand. “And I am the mother. We need to escape. There are dwarves here, fighting in the kingdom.”

  Could the murals hear her? She didn’t know. She squeezed Dale’s hand, getting his attention.

  “Ah, yeah. I’m the Tinker. Sebastian sent us. We need to escape,” Dale said.

  All the murals paused, frozen in mid-action. A sudden loud whoosh made Denise jump. The figures went back to their regular prescribed motions.

  Instead of a huge fire in the fireplace, the hearth had grown cold and covered in ashes. At the back of the fireplace now stood a dark staircase, leading up.

  “I knew it!” Dale said, turning to Denise. “In the house above the kingdom, the stairs were connected to the mantel.”

  “I see,” Denise said. It would make sense that the fairies would use the same sort of mechanism.

  The stairs going up looked dark, dismal, and steep. But it was their only hope.

  Racanta gestured toward the stairs. “You two go up. Escape. I need to return to my people.”

  Denise squeezed Dale’s hand before he replied. “You go,” she said. “Thank you.”

  While the warrior might be useful if there were dwarves ready to attack them up above, Denise didn’t want to be the one who sent Racanta to her death.

  Besides, Denise knew that the slightest injury would kill any dwarf. And when it came down to her and her children versus these twisted fairytale monsters, she knew which side she would always choose.

  “Ready?” she asked Dale after Racanta had flown off.

  He nodded grimly. “I’ll go first.”

  “I’ll follow right after you,” Denise said. Though she knew they weren’t out of the hole yet, they were finally on their way.

  They’d get back to the human world soon. And Denise would never, ever, come back. She’d had enough of fairies and dwarves for several lifetimes at this point.

  Chapter 9

  Ivan kept a scowl on his face as he faced this Old One, when in reality, he wanted to crow with glee.

  The head of Varlaam’s staff glowed with magical fire. He could feel the heat of the magic even though he stood a few feet away, and it wasn’t directly aimed at him.

  That fire would burn through anything, rock and bone alike.

  This was what Ivan needed! The magic of the staff! To go and kill the remaining fairies, and bring that accursed dome down on the heads of all who remained!

  Ivan knew that Varlaam couldn’t maintain the fire for long. Hopefully he’d be able to keep it up long enough to get the job done.

  “Did you really think that this land would be unoccupied? That you could just take over everything?” the Old One said to Ivan as he continued to slink forward.

  Ivan focused on the Old One’s face. The golden eyes burned as hotly as the staff in Varlaam’s hand. The Old One’s burned skin stretched tightly across the bones. No matter how ancient this being proclaimed himself to be, he was also deadly. Ivan had no doubt about that. It was only a matter of time of who killed whom first.

  “We knew that the fairies lived here,” Ivan replied. “That was enough to draw us out of our homes, to come and challenge them.”

  “The fairies won’t be staying here much longer,” the Old One promised. “And neither will you.”

  The Old One whirled so fast that if Ivan had blinked, he would have missed it. But he didn’t rush at Varlaam, run up to him and wrestle the staff from him. He merely raised his hand.

  Ivan watched in horror as Varlaam struggled to hold onto the staff. He couldn’t fight it, however. Particularly not when a shocking bolt ran along the length of the wood, making Varlaam release it.

  The staff flew directly to the Old One’s waiting hand and nestled there, as if it had finally come home.

  “You will leave my land. Now,” the Old One proclaimed. Bright white light sparked from the end of the staff.

  Party tricks, until Ivan realized that the sparks set fire to everything they touched.

  “Or I will sink your boots into the sand and leave you here for the tide to drown you,” the Old One said. He pounded the end of the staff on the ground. The sand under Ivan’s feet suddenly turned slippery and he started to sink.

  The Old One threw a glance over his shoulder at Ivan. The death promised in that look made Ivan’s blood run cold.

  Mitya, standing beside Ivan, brought up his whistle and looked at Ivan questioningly.

  Ivan nodded. Yes.

  Mitya blew on his whistle, three short loud blasts, sounding the retreat.

  “To the boats!” Varlaam shouted. The call was picked up by the other dwarves as they came racing up.

  “To the boats! To the boats!”

  Ivan trudged ahead slowly, not wanting to get too close to the Old One and his still sparking staff. He couldn’t help but stare in awe at the being. Who was this Old One? Where had he come from? Had he always lived on these shores?

  They were lucky there were no such creatures in the old world.

  Mitya and the others started organizing the dwarves, breaking down the camps, getting the injured dwarves moved onto the boats. They’d be gone before dawn.

  Ivan would never admit to anyone how relieved he felt: not to his warriors, certainly not his brother, and possibly not his wife.

  But nothing had gone right since he’d started this journey. It had been accursed since the very start.

  Small comfort for the long voyage home, full of seasick days and nights. At least he’d never have to make it again.

  Brett sat high on the edge of a cliff, watching as the last of the dwarven boats pulled out into the water. He’d thought about calling up more
waves, soaking them completely before they left his shore. But then he thought better of it, just wanting them gone.

  The staff he continued to hold in his hand was a wonder. It wasn’t as old as he was, but still ancient. The pure moonlight trapped inside soothed his soul, while the smooth wood felt warm and solid against his palm.

  If the staff had been held by someone who understood its true power, they might have been able to put up a fight against Brett. He still would have won, but he probably would have been injured. The dwarves were foolish to have forgotten how to use such magic.

  Then again, they were foolish dwarves. How dared they think that their continual war with the fairies was enough to grant them passage here? He shook his head.

  The fairies had already left—the last remaining few passing over the northern border of his territory. The dwarves would be gone soon. His land would be his, and his alone, for a while.

  Well, except for the pesky humans. But there wasn’t much he could do about them, not anymore. He’d have to destroy the entire coast if he wanted them gone.

  He pressed down with the staff, soaking up the magic that lay deep underground. With this weapon, he might have the power to shatter the coast, call up a strong enough earthquake to shake the humans from this part of the world.

  But no matter how he shook their ant hill, they’d come scurrying back. It wasn’t worth the effort.

  Still, he wanted to brag to someone about his accomplishment.

  Such a foolish, human impulse.

  His thoughts turned, as always, to Nora. He recognized that she was his weakness. Because he’d almost mated with her, almost claimed her as his own, she lived as a constant itch at the back of his skull.

  He couldn’t force her back to his territory. He had no strength outside of his lands. But maybe if he told her of his latest deed, that none other but humans lived here, maybe he could tempt her back for a visit.

  And maybe the dwarves would grow wings like the fairies.

  Brett snorted at himself even as he transformed, becoming like the wind itself and flowing east and north, to where his one last chance for true immortality lay.