by Mel Odom
“To create an even greater weapon,” Sokadir said. “Do you remember the tales of a dragon named Thalanildim? He was also called the Ravager?”
“I remember him,” Craugh said.
From the tone in the wizard’s voice, Wick got the feeling that Craugh had really known the dragon. Which would have been impossible for anyone—except, perhaps, Craugh.
“Sixteen hundred years ago and more, before Shengharck claimed the Broken Forge Mountains as his own and made his alliance with Lord Kharrion, Thalanildim made his home here. He was crass and evil, worse even than Shengharck was.”
“That’s hard to imagine,” Cobner said. “I seen Shengharck. Helped put an end to him with the little warrior here.” He nodded to Wick.
Sokadir’s purple eyes widened in surprise. “You? You’re a wizard?”
Wick didn’t know how to answer that.
“He’s a Librarian,” Craugh supplied. “From the Vault of All Known Knowledge.”
Sokadir smiled a little at that. “So you built it, did you?”
“We did,” Craugh admitted. “There’s still a lot of work to be done there, but we saved so much of what we knew.”
“Then another attempt can be made to destroy the world at a later date,” Sokadir said bitterly. “Lord Kharrion put the fear of books and knowledge in the goblinkin. If they ever find your precious Library, they’ll tear it to pieces and burn every book in it.”
The prediction sent a surge of fear through Wick. That was his worst nightmare.
“Thalanildim was killed,” Craugh said, “fourteen hundred years ago. Four hundred years before the Cataclysm.”
“I know,” Sokadir replied. “But Lord Kharrion was there in Dream, working on the mysterious magical metal that made these weapons. He was going to use it to raise Thalanildim. When Qardak bound the magic in the three weapons, we played right into Lord Kharrion’s hands and didn’t know it.” He paused and looked at Craugh. “You have, too. By bringing all the weapons here, you’ve allowed that old spell to once more become possible. You need to get these people out of here as soon as possible, and never come back here again.”
That set off an immediate response through the assembled ranks of warriors.
“An undead dragon,” Brandt mused. “The Unity had problems with the Boneblights and the Embyrs. Can you imagine what might have happened if Lord Kharrion had succeeded?”
“More than that,” a mocking voice said. “I can still make it happen.”
Wick turned, tracking the voice instantly. There, just beyond the firelight’s reach, shadowy figures emerged from the treeline. A huge troll held one of the dwarven pirates in his grasp. As Wick watched, recognizing Tarlis, who had been kind and a good friend aboard One-Eyed Peggie, the troll snapped his neck like kindling. Callously, the troll tossed Tarlis’s body to the side.
Craugh spoke harshly and pointed his staff. A jagged green lightning bolt leapt from the staff and struck the troll, tearing it into chunks of burnt flesh that flew in all directions.
Arrows flew into the camp, digging into flesh and chopping dwarves down before they could move to defend themselves.
“Scatter!” Cobner growled, grabbing his battle-axe and charging into the mass of shadows. “We’re targets standing here against the light!”
The others, the ones who were still alive and not too badly wounded, moved into the darkness to clash with their foes. Metal rang as blade met blade.
A tall man with a lean, hollow face and dead gray eyes stood revealed for a moment. He wore black robes that were covered with darker black sigils that absorbed the light from the campfire.
An arrow whizzed over Wick’s head, missing him by inches. If he hadn’t ducked low at Cobner’s shouted command it would have pierced his skull. Terror vibrated through him. He looked around and spotted Craugh, who threw a green fireball at the other wizard.
The fireball sped across the intervening distance, then smashed against an invisible barrier that glowed red at the impact. The green flames spread over the wizard but didn’t touch him. In seconds, the trees all around him and behind him were burning.
Cobner and Hallekk were in the thick of it. As they engaged enemy after enemy, all of them human and goblinkin, Wick realized that the Razor’s Kiss were among them. In the next moment, Wick glimpsed Brandt and Ryman Bey exchanging vicious sword blows. As usual when he was in the thick of a fight, Brandt smiled with the joy he felt.
To Wick’s left, Volsk, one of the Band of Thieves dwarves, struggled against two Razor’s Kiss opponents, barely holding his own against the two swords with his whirling battle-axe.
Unwilling to see his friend go down beneath enemy blades, Wick dashed in and kicked one of the Razor’s Kiss thieves in back of the knee. It was a move that Cobner had shown him again and again, emphasizing that he had to get his hips into it. Amazingly, the thief’s knee buckled, but he was adroit. As he went down, he twisted and came around with the knife in his left hand, lunging for Wick’s throat.
The little Librarian threw himself backward, but knew instantly he was far too late. He expected to feel the cool bite of the knife across his throat at any instant. His breath froze in his throat.
Then Hallekk stepped in, blocking the blow with his axe handle. He stepped forward and brought a massive hobnailed boot smashing down on the thief’s head, leaving him stretched out unconscious or dead.
“Hit an’ get clear,” Hallekk said. “Hit an’ get clear. Ye’re a little fella.” He grabbed Wick’s arm and yanked him to his feet.
“Thanks,” Volsk said, grinning through a mask of blood as he yanked his battle-axe from the head of his other foe. “They had me. Weren’t no way out.”
Wordlessly, Wick nodded. He got his bearings and headed for the nearest tree. He couldn’t fight out in the open. He lacked the necessary size and strength. And skill, he reminded himself. Despite Cobner’s best efforts.
Breath rasping hot and dry against the back of his throat, Wick plastered himself against the tree. Peering around it, he saw the figures locked in combat. The fires blazing in the treetops cast garish shadows over them.
Wick felt sick to his stomach with guilt and fear. His friends were in the middle of the battle, fighting for their lives and perhaps dying, and there was nothing he could do.
Still, defiance he hadn’t expected thrived in him. He bent low and picked up two large rocks. He could throw. Picking out his targets, he threw with astonishing accuracy. Both goblinkin dropped to the ground.
Catching movement from the corner of his eye, Wick dropped flat on his back. An axe thunked into the tree where he’d been.
“Ye’re fast, halfer,” the goblinkin leered. It put a huge foot on the tree and tried to yank the blade free. “I’ll give ye that. But ye won’t be as fast when I chop yer legs off.”
Wick scrabbled and caught a handful of dirt. Without thinking anything other than, Idon’twanttodieIdon’twanttodie!, he threw the dirt into the goblinkin’s face. The dirt got into its eyes, nose, and open mouth. It didn’t know whether to rub its eyes, sneeze, or spit.
Grabbing the goblinkin’s leg, Wick bit his opponent as hard as he could, hoping he didn’t end up with a chunk of goblinkin flesh in his mouth because that would have made him sick.
The goblinkin howled in mortal agony and started hopping up and down on his good leg as it tried to shake Wick loose of its other leg. The little Librarian chose that moment to kick his opponent’s other leg out from under him. Falling backward, the goblinkin struck its head against the tree. It tried to get up again, acting as though it didn’t have full possession of its senses.
Wick released his bite hold and crawled on top of the goblinkin’s chest. Even as the goblinkin reached for him, the little Librarian grabbed his opponent’s overly large ears and used them has handles to slam the goblinkin’s head against the tree again and again and again and—
“I think it’s dead,” a calm voice said.
Still panicking, Wick managed to stop
slamming the goblinkin’s head against the tree. Even the bark was smashed and torn. He glanced over and saw Quarrel standing with her back against a nearby tree.
“You never know,” Wick said. “These things can be very tricky.”
Quarrel glanced at the inert goblinkin. “Trust me on this one.”
Pushing himself up on shaking legs, Wick stood. He panted and tried to regain his breath.
“Are we winning?” Wick asked.
Quarrel shook her head. “I don’t know.” She showed him a long cut on her left arm. Blood dripped everywhere. “I need help getting this stopped.”
For a moment, Wick froze. There was too much blood. The cut was deep. I’m a Librarian. Not a medical doctor.
“Wick,” she said. “Please.”
Swiftly, he wrapped her wounded arm, pulling the flesh together as best he was able.
She bit back a cry of pain and slumped against the tree. For a moment he thought she’d passed out. Working as quickly as he could, he knotted the makeshift bandage into place.
Then he noticed the shadow that fell over him, blocking out the moonslight that poured through a clearing in the trees.
“Look out!” Quarrel said, struggling to bring her sword up.
Wick dodged to one side but couldn’t avoid the troll’s backhand blow that snapped his head sideways. His senses reeled as he flew into the brush. That was probably the only thing that saved his life, because the troll swung a trident after him, trying to skewer him. Desperately, Wick rolled in the brush to keep from getting impaled.
“Forget the halfer,” a man’s voice commanded. “Get the girl.”
“Yes, Master Broghan.” The troll reached for Quarrel. She tried to defend herself, but she was weak from loss of blood and could barely lift Seaspray.
The troll batted the sword away and closed a hand over her head.
“Don’t harm her.” The wizard dressed in black stepped out of the shadows. “Bring her and the sword. We can always use a hostage.”
Wick’s thoughts spun. If the wizard was here, where was Craugh? Had something happened to him? He didn’t want to believe that. The thought scared him and hurt him in ways he didn’t expect. He couldn’t imagine a world without Craugh in it.
The troll gathered Quarrel and threw her over his shoulder. Then he picked up Seaspray.
“Come on,” Kulik Broghan said. “With all of the weapons in close proximity to Thalanildim, we may still be able to activate the spell that Lord Kharrion wove into the vidrenium.”
No!
The troll glanced around in a manner that let Wick know he might have given voice to his denial. Then it lumbered after the wizard, going deeper into the forest.
Wick glanced around wildly. Shadowy figures still battled near the burning trees, and he could hear the sounds of others close by.
“Help!” he called. “Cobner!”
“Wick!” Cobner yelled back. “Wick! Hold on! I’ll find you!”
But as Wick watched the troll disappear into the shadows, he knew he couldn’t let Quarrel be taken without doing something. He pushed himself up, lurching after the troll and the wizard as his head spun.
“Wick!” Cobner called. A sound of crashing bodies sounded behind him.
“They’ve got Quarrel,” Wick called. “They’ve got her sword. They’re going to try to activate the spell on Thalanildim.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. But it has to be close.”
A horse whinnied deeper in the forest. Suddenly afraid that the wizard and the troll would slip away and disappear, Wick sped up, running as quickly and stealthily as he could. He barely kept the troll in sight in the shifting fog that slid and twisted through the Forest of Fangs and Shadows. Every time branches slid across his face he kept remembering the spiders’ webs.
Only a short distance up the hill, the Razor’s Kiss and goblinkin had left a group of horses. By that time, three other men, including Ryman Bey and Gujhar, had joined Kulik Broghan.
Wick couldn’t help wondering how many of his friends now lay dead or were dangerously wounded. He didn’t even know if Quarrel was still alive.
This was all a trap, he realized bitterly. Getting into Kulik Broghan’s fortress was far too easy. They expected us to do that. He wanted to cry out for Craugh or Cobner or Hallekk, someone bigger and stronger who could rescue Quarrel and prevent Kulik Broghan from raising Thalanildim.
“Mount up,” Kulik Broghan ordered. “If we can get Thalanildim partially raised, it will tilt the odds drastically in our favor.”
By then Wick was close enough to see the shadows shifting through the trees. The horses stamped the ground and their hoofbeats sounded hollow. The acrid sweat stink of them pinched Wick’s nose.
He paused at the edge of the clearing where the horses were tethered, dropping down to hide in the brush. The sound of the fighting got closer, catching up to him.
“They’re fighting their way in this direction,” Ryman Bey said. “Are you sure you killed that wizard?”
“He’s as good as dead if he’s not dead already,” Kulik Broghan declared. “I studied under Lord Kharrion. He taught me a lot about Craugh. Lord Kharrion had a special hatred of him.”
Craugh! Wick walled off the immediate deluge of grief that filled him.
“Let me have the sword.”
The troll handed the sword to Kulik Broghan. Sparks leaped from the weapon as the wizard touched it, and the blade glowed bright blue. Cursing, he shoved the weapon under his robe to hide it. He kicked his heels against the horse’s side and reined it around, charging down the decline in the direction of Darkling Swamp.
Ryman Bey took Quarrel, throwing her across the saddle in front of him, then he urged his horse into motion as well.
Twenty riders in all poured out of the clearing. More than twice that many horses remained until the goblinkin and Razor’s Kiss thieves scattered the animals. Four riders thundered for the narrow gap between the trees.
Knowing that he might lose Quarrel, Wick ran, unable to help himself. He angled through the forest toward the gap, hoping to cut the horses off. You are not Taurak Bleiyz, he reminded himself. They don’t need you! You’re expendable!
But he ran anyway.
Even as fleet of foot as he was, Wick almost missed the horses. The last one passed him just as he reached the gap. Before he knew what he was doing, he leaped and reached for the horse’s tail, screaming out behind it. He knotted his fingers in the coarse hair and hoped his arms weren’t jerked from their sockets.
He was falling when the horse’s speed yanked him forward, dragging him into the animal’s flashing rear hooves. He slammed against the horse’s legs with bruising force, causing the horse to stumble, then finally fall.
The goblinkin was thrown from the saddle and smashed into a tree with a meaty crunch that left it sagged into a limp collection of broken bones and torn flesh. The horse rolled once, but Wick hung on, not daring to let go his grip.
Wobbly but frightened, the horse pushed itself to its feet. Wobbly but frightened, Wick did the same. He ran two steps forward and threw himself into the saddle as the horse galloped forward again. In the saddle, he stayed low and hung onto the pommel. He bounced precariously, neither foot able to reach a stirrup. Still, it was better than riding bareback. And with his slight weight spread across the animal’s back instead of a much heavier goblinkin, the horse ran at full speed with more agility.
In fact, the horse ran too fast. In no time at all, he pulled up next to a Razor’s Kiss thief who was was hunkered low over his own saddle. When he saw Wick, the man’s face filled with surprise. He drew his sword, straightening his back and falling behind for just a moment, then he was back with a vengeance, urging his mount on to greater speed.
Spotting a low-hanging branch ahead, Wick reined the horse to the right. The thief followed him at once, standing up in the stirrups to take a swing. At that moment, however, both horses ran under the low-hanging branch. The branch took
the thief out of the saddle with a loud thwack!
Wick rode on. Wisps of fog drifted across the narrow trail the horses raced down. As he drew even with the next rider, a goblinkin, Wick slipped a small knife from his belt that Cobner had given him.
The goblinkin looked over its shoulder, grimaced, and pulled his club out to strike.
Ducking low, Wick thumped his heels against his animal’s side. The goblinkin swung the club but it merely whistled over Wick’s head. The little Librarian reached out and sliced the saddle’s girth strap, dumping the goblinkin at once.
As the horse galloped around the next turn and started the steeper decline there, Wick glimpsed the Darkling Swamp ahead of him. The black surface sat placid and daunting.
15
Lord Kharrion’s Wrath
Death waited out in Darkling Swamp, Wick knew. Crocodiles and poison snakes and large snapping turtles. Then there were dryads and banshees that lived in the cypress trees knotted in the center.
Three piers ran out into the water, proof that some—whether elven or human from Calmpoint and Deldal’s Mills—fished or hunted there.
Kulik Broghan and Ryman Bey made for the middle one.
Wick turned and looked back the way he’d come, hoping desperately that rescue was just behind him. Instead, there was no one. He tried to rein the horse in, but it was in the grip of sheer terror and wanted to join the others.
“Look!” one of the Razor’s Kiss thieves yelled. “It’s the halfer!”
Two of them drew bows and nocked back arrows. Two others wheeled their mounts around and rode on an interception course.
Lacking the strength to pull the frightened horse’s head around, Wick slid his weight over to the right stirrup, dropping down as one of the arrows whizzed over his head and the other pierced the saddle pommel a scant inch from his hand. He let go the pommel when he was almost on top of the other horses.
As skillfully as he could, Wick hit the ground and rolled, hoping to take away some of the brunt of the landing as well as stay a moving target. The air rushed out of his lungs when he hit, and he lost all control, skidding across the rough ground, losing skin and collecting bruises as he went.
