A Balance Broken (Dragonsoul Saga)

by Hartke, J. T.

  Manifred stared at him, an unrecognizable look on her face. With a sudden burst of tears, she grabbed and hugged him. “I have known you thirty years, since you were a little boy,” she whispered. “I have always known your strength. I am certain it is enough for the many who will lean on you in dark times.”

  Tomas returned her embrace, the weight of years lifting from his shoulders, though a darker shadow still hovered in the back of his mind.

  The Balance has shifted indeed.

  “The Cataclysm has not destroyed our people! It has saved us while we remained in refuge. Look at these new mountains upon our very doorstep. The Iron Mountains were empty. These will be fresh with once deeply hidden veins of gold, silver, iron, and copper. Who better than we dwarves to pull out those resources? We will rebuild our great civilization with them, as we discover what change has wrought.”

  — King Varathar of the Dwarves at the hour of Exodus

  Darve Northtower stepped out onto a wide platform at the top of the stone edifice that gave his family its name. He gazed over the city as evening sweeping into the sky. Only the royal palace at the peak of the Rock maintained a greater view of the lumbering Dragonscales. The wind caught his light robe and whipped it about him. His gray streaked beard and the few long wisps that clung to his scalp fluttered in the breeze.

  “Not bad for a dwarf of over two hundred,” he chuckled to the setting sun while brushing his hand through the bristles on his chin.

  “You’re that old!”

  Darve turned to see that Bran and his twin Brax had joined him for evening air, their youthful laughter breaking the silence.

  “You will hope to look as good as your uncle,” he mock-scolded the dwarf of only sixty.

  “Bran will hope to look as good as me,” Brax added with a harsh laugh.

  The two young dwarves appeared identical in Darve’s eyes, save for a small scar over Brax’s left brow. However, Darve had watched their personalities diverge, even during childhood.

  “What?” Bran looked at his brother with a face full of shock. “And have your constant frown pasted upon my lips?” He laughed a bright chuckle. “I would rather leap from this tower right now to avoid that.”

  “I would toss you now…” Brax charged at his brother, stopping short. “…to avoid the next couple centuries living with you.”

  “Silence!” Darve sliced the air with his hand. “My patience for your gibberish is limited today. I wish to witness this sunset in peace.” He waved toward the door back into the tower. “If you wish to babble like the children I thought you no longer were then go back inside.”

  The twins quieted, though not without first each giving the other a good elbowing.

  With a sigh of exasperation, Darve stepped onto the small platform at the center of the terrace. Upon it hung a bronze bell cast almost a thousand years ago, replated and refurbished over the generations.

  Darve lifted an eyebrow at his nephews. “Do you young men know why Northtower was built? Do you know where your family comes from?”

  Brax folded his arms with a scowl. “Of course we do, Uncle. We are not fools.”

  Darve shook his head. “I did not say you were. I only asked a question.”

  “It was built by Carnac Northtower,” Bran said, flashing a smirk at his brother, “when what remained of our people exited the Rock after the Cataclysm.”

  “Yes…” Darve raised a finger. “…but what was his name before the Cataclysm?”

  “Carnac Bywater.” Brax folded his arms and raised an eyebrow at Bran. “And he was not born among the people of the Rock or the Iron Hills.”

  Darve nodded. “Yes. Our ancestors sought refuge with King Varathar when he sealed his people inside the Rock during the Cataclysm, but they were not born his subjects. Carnac hailed from the far south, from a group of dwarves we do not believe survived the Dragon Wars. He had come to trade with the dwarves of what once were called the Iron Mountains.” He furrowed his brow at the twins. “What does this teach us?”

  Brax rolled a snide grin across his lips. “Not to cause another Cataclysm?”

  “Dwarves did not cause the Cataclysm!” Darve knit his brow and thrust his finger at his nephew. “You will stop with that ‘Galdrian Cult’ nonsense. It is a thing for young fools and jackanapes. I thought you well beyond that, Brax.”

  The young dwarf nodded with a bashful face. “I am sorry, Uncle. I really am. It just popped out of me – a joke in poor taste.” He folded his hands together in a pleading gesture. “My involvement with them was the mistake of a young man. I abandoned that two decades ago. I would never allow their heresy in my presence again.”

  “Good.” Darve gripped Brax’s fingers with his own. “I knew it.” He reached one hand over to his other nephew. Bran offered a bright smile. “Come,” Darve said. “Let us look upon the city our ancestors founded together, from the tower Carnac built.” Releasing their hands, he pointed at the dwarf runes carved around the edge of the ancient bell. “To guard His Majesty’s northern flank. To watch the mountains from whence came our destruction.” He ran his finger along the etched runes as he read them, feeling their age. “It is our family’s grave responsibility.”

  The dwarves stood there in thought, their eyes fixed on the soaring Dragonscales. Darve filled his lungs with the fresh air that blew down from them. Something odd tickled his nostrils. He did not recognize the scent, yet it set the hairs on his back to dancing.

  “Do you sme—” Darve stopped when his eyesight caught something moving against the horizon, darker than the sky, but lighter in shade than the mountain slopes. The hazy shape reminded him of a flock of birds – an extremely large flock of birds. “From Earth’s heart…” he whispered. A moment later, his brain snapped into action. Darve dashed over to the small chest next to a set of divans. Flipping open the lid, he dug down through the contents to pull out a brass and crystal spyglass. Running back over to the top of the platform, he leaned against the bell. The glass went to his eye, and he swung it toward the mountains.

  A green-scaled face leaped into the circle of his vision. Sharp fangs dripped slather into the wind, while muscular forearms pumped leathery wings against it. Darve adjusted the focus, and his heart leapt about inside his chest. Dozens more reptilian shapes flew out of the mountains, each one a different mesh of colors. His glass caught glimpse of a massive black beast with scarlet tipped wings. Darve’s bouncing heart sank like a stone.

  “Dragons!” His hand grabbed the old stone hammer and pounded it against the bell. Even after centuries unused, its tone still rang true. It tolled out over the entire city, echoing against the mountain home of the dwarven king. Soon other bells took up the call, as more folk noticed the wavering shapes on the horizon.

  “Gather the house defenses!” Darve ran toward the far side of the tower’s crown where a heavy ballista sat. A crew of dwarves on guard had already begun to load and crank it. “Sergeant Marrax! Prepare to target the beasts as they come at us. Aim for the face or underbelly.” Darve turned back to his nephews. “Bran! Get that mage you brought with you. Bring him up here!” Both young dwarves ran for the door. “Brax! You check that every weapon platform is in action. I will command up here.”

  “Yes, Uncle,” they shouted back in unison.

  Darve turned to the ballista crew. Their faces paled, but they stood with the weapon loaded, ready to launch. Sergeant Marrax Redarm manned the aiming winches.

  I would almost believe he might have faced the beasts before from his cool. But there has been no dragon raid on the Rock for at least six centuries. Marrax may be older than I am, but he’s not that much older.

  “Wait for them, Sergeant.” Darve patted the air with both hands, gesturing for calm. “I have never seen one myself. However, I have read family records on how to fight them.” The sergeant leaned in close, his eyes squinting at Darve. “You want to wait unti
l they get right up on you. But you have to be quick, or you get burned. The open mouth is listed as the best place to put a shaft.” Darve knitted his brow. “But they usually open right before they blast you with fire so timing is critical.”

  “Aye, Maester Northtower.” Marrax turned to his crew. “You dogs heard the maester! Get yer eggs in place.” He leaned toward Darve and whispered, “What is this, sir? Dragons? In a flight?”

  Shaking his head with his own disbelief, Darve searched for an answer to give the warrior who had so long served his family. “I do not know, Marrax.” He lifted a hand in futility. “We can only react as warriors must.”

  The sergeant nodded, firmness setting his features once again. “Aye, sir. That we will.” He turned back to the crew. “Ready you dogs! I want the sluices and sand barrels opened.” The soldiers scattered at his orders. Marrax turned back. “Maester, you have no armor or weapon. You must take refuge inside the tower.”

  Darve opened his mouth to protest, but dozens of archers and crossbowmen bursting out onto the terrace interrupted him. They took up places near the parapet, their faces nervous. A shaven-headed dwarf trotted behind them, his beard oiled to a fine point. Yrik wore simple robes not that different from Darve’s. Bran stalked behind him. He had already donned his finest chainmail and carried a heavy crossbow.

  Screams climbed to Darve’s ears from the city far below. The reptilian shapes swooped upon the lower buildings, toppling stone and ripping prey from where they ran. Some of the dragons reached the size of houses, while others looked to be no larger than a pony.

  “One bearing on the tower, Maester!” came a shout from Darve’s left. Several of the more stalwart archers bunched together along the western parapet.

  “Spread out!” Darve waved his arms about in the air. “Concentrate your fire, but don’t let the damn thing wipe out an entire squad with one breath.”

  Brax trotted out onto the roof. He carried a heavy leather tunic treated with a fireproofing salve for Darve. The younger dwarf also handed Darve the Northtower family helm. “Can they really spit fire, Uncle?”

  “I think you are about to find out,” Darve said with surety, slipping the tunic over his robe. He took his great grandfather’s helm, wrought of stainless steel in the form of a squat tower.

  Sergeant Marrax pointed into the sky. “It’s the big black one!”

  Darve clamped the helm down upon his head. “Then swing that ballista this way, sergeant.”

  Marrax cranked the heavy handle. Darve’s engineers maintained the weapons designed during the Dragon Wars. They’ve been tested, yes, but never fired in actual battle.

  Above the noise of the weapon’s gears and the shouts of his men, Darve heard a whooshing of air. Time slowed when the beast, both magnificent and terrifying, swept over the rim of the tower. In that bare moment, Darve saw its ruby eyes scanning the rooftop. He noticed the scarlet edging on its ebony appendages. The veins that webbed their way through its leathery wings throbbed in time with the beat of its massive heart. The beast latched its strong rear legs onto the parapet and stretched its wingspan, casting a shadow on Darve’s entire company.

  “Aim and loose!”

  Greenish curls of flame erupted over the front rows of Darve’s men. A few managed to leap away, but three were burned to ash where they stood. A half dozen more rolled about screaming, their comrades dousing the flames as best they could.

  Many archers loosed their arrows, but only a few missiles found purchase in the dragon’s scaly armor. One crossbow bolt ripped a hole through its wing. Darve looked at Marrax as the ebony monster sucked in for another blast. The older warrior held one eye closed, his other trained on the beast. Sergeant Marrax heaved against the vertical adjustment, tilting the ballista slightly higher.

  “Launch!” Marrax sliced the air with one hand. A soldier slapped a lever, and the three-yard shaft of oak and steel flashed out at the dragon. It scraped the beast’s face, dazing the monster and ripping away a layer of scales. The dragon heaved away from the tower’s edge, flapping for altitude and roaring in rage. It curved away toward the stadium where hundreds of other dwarves gathered for refuge.

  Darve waved his arms at the crew. “Reload!”

  Brax looked back and cupped a hand to his mouth. “Another is headed toward us, Uncle!”

  Darve grabbed the mage friend of his nephew by the sleeve. “If you have the powers you claim, sir mage, I would think now a perfect time to use them.”

  “I assure you, Maester Northtower, the next dragon to attack this tower will feel my power.” Yrik stretched out his fingers. “You may then see how invaluable my service would be to a house such as yours.”

  Darve narrowed his eyes. “If you kill one of these beasts, Magus, I’ll give you twice the stipend you ask.”

  Yrik returned a narrow, pasty smile, one that looked unfamiliar on that face. He bowed with a great deal of grace and flourish.

  “Here one comes!” An archer waved from the parapet. The dwarves near that edge of the tower spread apart, pulling their bows.

  This time the dragon did not loom so large, but still it overshadowed the platoon of archers. Purple ridges crawled along its emerald wings. A forked, red tongue lashed about behind needle-like fangs. Flame with a slight purple tint poured from its maw. The blast did not carry as much heat as the ebony dragon’s fire had, yet still Darve lost another two of his company before they launched a shot.

  In his gut Darve felt a sudden concussion. Stone, broken from the parapet by their first attacker, leaped up from the rooftop and smashed into the face of the beast.

  “Launch!” Marrax shouted when the dragon toppled backward. The ballista bolt darted toward it and lodged under its chin. The steel tip ripped out the back of its green head, pinning the jaws shut. The body tumbled backward and crashed to the street and gardens below.

  A cheer sprang up from the men. Bran slapped Yrik on the back with a laugh. Brax granted them a rare smile.

  “Reload!” Darve hollered out to everyone. “There are fifty more where that one came from!”

  The entire group wore chastised faces, including the mage. They scrambled to positions, pulling arrows and bolts from quivers. The ballista cranked into readiness, and its crew hefted another shaft into place.

  Three beasts came at once, each not much bigger than a human’s horse, but still able to breathe fire. They were a dull gray with mottled brown, not nearly as striking as the first two. Arrows caught these with more ease. Soon they scampered away into the air, one falling at last, overwhelmed by a dozen shafts.

  Darve noticed the black one not far away, swooping into the open marketplace and pulling a fat dwarf from the ground. The dragon tossed its victim into the air and snapped down on the body, swallowing it with a single gulp.

  Another beast caught his eye, a crimson one with bright blue rides on his spine and head. Spirits of Earth, it’s almost as big as the black one.

  The dragon’s gaze passed over Northtower, and it curved its wings to swoop toward the dwarf emplacement. It swelled, pulling in the air it needed to feed its fires.

  “Marrax,” Darve shouted, his eyes transfixed on the dragon, “do you have another shaft ready?”

  “Aye, sir!”

  Darve took a step back, as the dragon swept forward. He felt the red and bronze eyes focusing on him, their catlike slits tightening on his presence. The dragon cracked its maw, and a black soot drifted out in the wind of its flight. “Any time, Sergeant.”

  The missile launched, shooting out as if it was pulled on a line toward the dragon’s mouth. It darted forward, a pin of steel and oak. The beast opened its jaw to lay fire upon the tower just as the shaft struck, burying itself deep in the dragon’s throat. The creature spasmed violently, scrambling as if to stop its flight and cut off its breath.

  The dragon’s head exploded in a flash of green flame, leaving
a sinewy neck to flop with a caustic, burning ooze flinging about as the body crashed to the streets below.

  Another cheer rose from the soldiers.

  From the top of Northtower, Darve watched night swallow the valley of the Stonebourne Fork. Fires raged through the city. Forest hamlets in the surrounding mountain vales dotted the distance with kindled flames. The flight of dragons gathered above the fiery wreckage of their attack and soared off northward. Fewer returned over the mountains than had come. However, the glow that still hung on the mountain’s shoulders after the sun disappeared, left evidence of the destruction abandoned in their wake.

  “Second platoon! Spread through the tower and city.” Darve ripped the helm from his head, sweat making the leather padding sticky. “See if anyone needs aid – and I do mean anyone.” He pointed to Sergeant Marrax. “Keep your crew ready in case one returns.”

  Half the archers dashed toward the door leading down to the street level.

  “I will go with them, Uncle.” Bran gave a quick salute. He pointed at Brax and Yrik. “You two stay here and protect him.”

  Brax nodded, his eyebrows knit in conviction. “Aye, brother.”

  Darve walked to the mage. “You are hired, Magus Yrik.” He extended his hand. “Welcome to the Northtower family.” The mage’s grip, weak at first, strengthened as Darve shook it.

  Natural gypsum chandeliers sparkled along the ceiling of the Cavern of Beginnings where it vaulted far over Darve’s head. Dozens of long chains hung from that expanse of rock, suspending oil lamps at odd intervals. The effect dizzied Darve, even though he had been deep under the mountain dozens of times before.

  Unlike the palace, the gardens, or the Magnum Room, the Cavern of Beginnings is not meant to be beautiful. It means to humble those who walk through it. Yet it still achieves beauty, even in its austerity.

  Darve’s gaze settled on the stone chair that stood alone within the vast chamber. Carvings depicting the history of the dwarves wrapped around the throne. Wide patches remained untouched by chisel and hammer, the bare stone awaiting heroes yet to be born. They say when the last space is carved, the throne will crack, and our people will disappear from the world.