Those outer stations were abandoned now, cold and dark in the distant reaches of the Darksea. The dwarves were looking inward these days, and she grimaced at the awareness of the cowardice that seemed to have taken over her nation, her people. She made a silent vow, in her father’s memory, to try and redeem that failing.
She wondered, then, about how she would find Hiyram. She had never approached the ghetto by water, though it seemed to her that this might be a safer route than trying to pass the guards posted at every gate into the rank goblin quarter. Looking at the beacons of the watchtowers, she saw the cones of white light play across the water, trying to pick a route that would take her up to the ghetto wharf without being detected.
As they made their way across the sea, the near shore vanished into the vast darkness of the First Circle, while the far shore gradually took on more detail, towers and streets and individual buildings outlined in eternal coolfyre. After another hour, Aurand took over the oars from Konnor, who moved to the seat just forward of Darann, as she steered them closer to the low, dark part of the city-the place the Seers had walled off to create the ghetto. It was eerily dark in there, though the wall itself and the offshore waters were constantly swept by those shifting beacons.
“Do you know where Hiyram lives?” asked the dwarven explorer, stretching his arms, rolling his shoulders to loosen the kinks brought on by his long stretch of rowing. She noticed for the first time that he was remarkably handsome, his eyes bright and cheery, his black beard neat and silky, even after several cycles in the wilderness. He had an easy smile, and she was glad that he was here.
“No, I don’t. But everyone in there seems to know him. I’ve gone into the place a number of times, taking them the few necessities I can gather, and as soon as I pass the gates, someone always seems to send for him. I think that will happen again, that he will find me as soon as we get there.”
Konnor was looking at her with a strangely emotional expression, his eyes wide and full of wonder. “You go in there by yourself? I mean, I had heard that you did, of course… but it seems… it seems so brave!”
“Brave?” She laughed, embarrassed. “Not compared to climbing around the edges of the world, going into Nightrock itself! No, I just do what small part I can to try to be useful, perhaps to resist the malady that seems to be dragging our whole people down.”
“Well, I think it’s really admirable. You know, you are quite a woman-I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like you.”
She was suddenly uncomfortable with his words, his direct stare-even if it was affectionate and admiring. It had been long since a male had talked to her like this, and she couldn’t help a sense of guilt, a feeling that to accept his affection would somehow be unfaithful to her long-dead husband.
“You miss him still,” he said gently. “Don’t you?”
She chuckled wryly, surprised-and not displeased-that he had perceived her care so readily. “I know that I will, always,” she replied, remembering. Karkald could be gruff and impetuous, and his manners were poor at best. But he was kind, and he had loved her very much. Darann felt a lump in her throat as she remembered his hands, so rough and callused, yet so perfectly gentle when they touched her.
Those thoughts, all of them, were instantly banished when she heard a stutter of sound borne through the still air: like distant screams. There was an unmistakeable crash, as of a steel blade coming into contact with something hard. The noise echoed, distant but sharp, lingering in her ears even after the sound itself had faded away. It was repeated, and again, quickly rising to a remote but ringing cacophony.
“What’s that?” Darann asked in sudden fear.
They could all hear the sounds, which were too faint to fully discern. They could have been caused by either celebration or fear. Intuitively, she suspected a sinister explanation. She heard something else gradually emerging from the stillness: a rumbling beat coming from the city of Axial, from the lower flats along the null shore of the lake… from the goblin ghetto.
That was the measured cadence of armored troops on the march. Aurand rowed harder, pushing the boat through the water with palpable surges, leaving a visible wake behind them. Darann felt the lunge with each stroke, silently willing her brother to even greater speed.
“What do you think is happening?” Konnor asked as the boat cut swiftly through the eternally placid waters of the sea.
“It can only mean one thing,” Darann said grimly. “Nayfal has given orders to the city guard, and they’re moving against the goblins.”
“Surely it hasn’t come to that!” Borand protested.
“He’s convinced lots of people, maybe even the king himself, that the goblins will rise up and attack as soon as the Delvers move against us,” she replied. “I’m guessing that someone important-maybe just Nayfal, but who knows?-has decided to make a preemptive attack.”
“But they’ll be butchered!” Aurand protested. “The goblins won’t have a chance!”
“All the more reason we need to get to our pailslopper and persuade her to tell the king what she knows,” Darann said. She looked pointedly at her younger brother, who was straining at the oars. “Can’t you row any faster?”
Nayfal mounted his ferr’ell after the liveryman had saddled the beast and had carefully affixed the steel muzzle that prevented the partially savage creature from snapping back at its rider. The lord had learned through painful experience that no ferr’ell was to be trusted. Still, he was the only dwarven noble who had ever learned to ride one of the savage creatures, and at a time like this he was determined that his men would see him in the saddle, where he belonged.
He clutched the reins and spurred the animal forward, lurching in the saddle and wishing for at least the thousandth time that a ferr’ell had a more regular gait. Instead, the beast caused him to bob back and forth on the undulating back. Some of the most veteran Rockriders eventually learned to mimic this motion, growing naturally comfortable in the saddle, but such proficiency required many long miles of riding. As a powerful lord, he didn’t have time for such diversions. Besides, he didn’t trust the ’riders, most of whom had been recruited and trained by Karkald. Fortunately, the light cavalry and their savage steeds had become virtually obsolete in the days of goblin control.
Still, he relished the awe in the faces of Axial’s dwarves as he trotted swiftly through the city streets. Youngsters gawked on the sidewalks, while women scurried out of his way and men stared admiringly at the dashing figure. The sleek animal held its head high, ears pricked upward and whiskers twitching, suitably impressive as it loped down the city street. Nayfal noted with pleasure that he still drew attention wherever he went.
He made his way down the Avenue of Metal, the wide boulevard leading toward the harbor. The ghetto lay before him to the right, and as he approached he was pleased to hear the clash of arms and the cries of frightened goblins rising from beyond the high wall. There was a company of city guardsmen standing at ease just outside the first gate, and these dwarves gathered around as he approached.
One brave sergeant even took the reins to keep the ferr’ell from bobbing restively. The toothy jaws snapped, and the dwarf clapped it across the snout with his gauntleted fist. Growling, the steed stood still.
“Lord Nayfal! The raid is progressing well,” reported the leader, a gray-bearded veteran with a silver-lined helmet. “The goblins are running like sheep. We’ve already cleared out the blocks against the Metal Wall.”
“Good. I expected nothing less, of course. But good.”
“Only thing is, the gobs are getting kind of thick in the middle plazas now. We’re getting ’em packed in tight, but we was wondering… what to do with ’em now.”
“There’s no choice. You’ll have to kill them, especially the males-though if a wench raises a stick to you, well, cut her down as well.”
The captain’s eyes widened momentarily, but then he recovered and nodded tentatively. “You’re wanting them butchered, then… all the
males?” He shifted his balance from one foot to the other, an act of nervousness that annoyed the lord. “Can I be having that order in writing then, my lord?” the warrior had the temerity to ask.
“You have witnesses; the order comes from the king himself,” snapped Nayfal. “And he, as well as I, expect it to be carried out.”
“Er, of course, my lord. Just that, well, that’s a lot of killing… a lot of blood will run.”
“Am I to assume that you don’t have the stomach for this work, Captain? Because I assure you, I know plenty of officers who are more than willing to proceed.”
“Please, lord, I meant no disrespect! I’ve always been one who follows his orders, to the letter; dots the i’s and crosses the t’s, I do. Just wanted clarification, which yer lordship was gracious enough to supply.”
“Then get going!” demanded Nayfal. “There’s a lot of work to do in there!”
He allowed himself a tight smile of satisfaction as the company of dwarves, swords drawn, tromped through the gate and started looking for goblins. The smile remained as he spurred the ferr’ell along, ready to pass the orders along to the armored companies waiting outside of each of the ghetto’s gates.
“This one has a knife!” came the cry of the dwarven watch sergeant, ringing through the alley with a sound that, to Hiyram, sounded like a full bray of alarm. The goblin pulled back his weapon in horror, all but gagging as he saw the red smear on the keen blade. He wanted to stop, to explain that he was only defending himself, but that impulse was overwhelmed by the pressing urgency to escape, to survive.
Desperately Hiyram squirmed in the grip of the burly guard. Other dwarves closed in, for now they had him surrounded. The goblin hoped that Spadrool had made his escape and had led the females and youngsters to some semblance of safety. Perhaps the drainage tunnels, after all, might provide escape. At the same time he despaired: safety? Where was that? What could they possibly do against these numbers, this brutal and organized intent?
For himself, he would fight. He had killed before, but never had he slain a Seer dwarf, and never had the sheen of blood on his blade looked so gruesome or caused him such anguish as it did now. Now the knowledge was heartbreaking, for he had killed one of Karkald’s people, the dwarves who had been his friends for hundreds of years.
“Forgive me, Lady,” he whispered again, closing his eyes against the force of his guilt.
But the guards were closing in, a ring tightening around him, menacing and cursing, weapons reaching out to do him harm. He had no choice: he stabbed again, slashing at the arm of the guard holding him. The keen steel sliced through gauntlet, skin, and tendon, drawing a scream of pain from the stricken dwarf.
“The bastard cut me! Kill him!”
In the next instant Hiyram felt the grip relax, and the goblin spun free. More dwarves lunged, but he threw himself flat on the ground, scuttling with two quick pounces between sturdy legs and iron-shod boots-though one kick thumped painfully into his knee.
But he was through the ring of guards! Bouncing to his feet, he sprinted away, ignoring the pain that jabbed through his thigh with each step on the bruised knee. He ran frantically but not blindly, heading down the twisting alley, his wide eyes perceiving the barrels stacked near the wall, the broken crate with the pieces scattered in his path. With a single leap he flew over the obstacle, his feet slapping against wet stone as he landed.
He heard the crashing of armor and tin as the pursuing dwarves tripped on the crumbled box. In the next instant he was around a corner-a dead end in the alley! But there was hope in that wall of loose masonry, and a second later he was leaping up the rickety framework on the side of an ancient building. His hand slipped on a slick stone, but he caught himself with two fingertips, holding himself long enough that his feet could find purchase and kick his body upward. In another second he was sprawled on the roof, lying flat, listening.
The first thing he heard was the pounding of his own heart. Quickly he discerned other sounds: the noises of fear and flight that were spreading through the terrorized goblin community, and the heavy march of the dwarven columns. They must have come through the wall in at least six or eight places, he estimated. How in the world could the goblins defend themselves when they had barely that many true weapons among them? Not to mention that malnutrition had been weakening his people for decades, leaving many of them barely strong enough to stand, much less fight! Why had the dwarves come now? What would his people do besides despair and then die?
“What would Karkald do?” the goblin muttered to himself soundlessly. He had campaigned with that venerable dwarf for centuries, and Karkald had always seemed to have-or be able to make-a plan.
The answer to his question came to Hiyram with surprising clarity. First Karkald would get organized, would try to learn what kind of assets he had, and what kind of challenges he faced. Of course!
Immediately the goblin felt better. He rose to a crouch and crept to the edge of the roof, looking down to where a dozen dwarves were poking through the rubble in the alley, still searching for the goblin fugitive. They turned over the barrels, kicking and cursing as they searched. Several chopped their blades downward, shattered the containers with a force that would certainly have killed him if Hiyram had been hiding within.
Now the goblin was not so much afraid as angry. He looked around, found a wall of loose masonry at the crest of the building, and took several heavy stones in his hands. Then he went back to the edge over the alley, took careful aim, and threw the first stone. In quick succession he tossed another and snatched up the rest, pitching five heavy missiles down onto the searching dwarves.
“Ouch! Hey, he’s up there! Blind-blast it!” came the shouts as the rough-edged stones plunged downward. Hiyram wasn’t worried about immediate pursuit-the dwarves would never make it up the wall he had climbed-and he would be long gone by the time they found another way onto the rooftop.
Organize, learn, prepare… all good plans, as though Karkald himself was here, making suggestions. They seemed to give Hiyram wings as he leapt across the rooftops, making his way toward the heart of the ghetto.
T HE spotlights played across the water as the Seer dwarves in the watchtowers wielded their coolfyre beacons with unusual diligence. From the low, metal-hulled boat those washes of light seemed like sinister searchers, sweeping and probing across the surface of the Darksea. When another boat came into the glare of one beam it remained fixed on the watercraft for some time, and Darann could imagine the guards taking careful inventory of whoever was aboard that vessel.
The goblin ghetto opened only onto a small section of Axial’s waterfront, a place crowded with piers and docks and fisheries and even a long-abandoned boatyard. The docks were strangely naked, Darann was not surprised to see, for she recalled that one of the first of King Lightbringer’s goblin-control edicts was to ban them from owning boats. Not that goblins had ever been much for seafaring, but now they had no means of getting in and out of the ghetto by water. It seemed, judging from the vigorous sweeps of the beacons, that the dwarves intended to keep it that way. There seemed to be no gap, no way to slip between the diligent searchlights.
“We’ll never get to the ghetto docks without being spotted. We’ll have to land in the city and make our way there over land,” Borand whispered from the bow, vocalizing the same conclusion Darann had reached on her own.
“Let’s go to the ferry harbor,” she suggested, veering the tiller to turn them in the direction of wood. “There’s lots of activity there, and we’ll be able to slip into the docks without attracting attention. And it’s only a half mile down the waterfront from the ghetto wall.”
“Good idea,” Borand agreed.
For a while there was just the steady creaking of the oars and the solid rhythm of Aurand’s deep, strong breathing as he pushed the boat along. The light grew stronger, not just the wash of the great beacon but the general spillage from a thousand household lamps, a hundred globular streetlights, and the torc
hes that marked each of the hundred or so boats currently making their way along the waterfront. Darann could see their reflection in the water, knew that they would soon be spotted by dwarves in other boats, and on shore.
“Best we light our own wick,” she said, nodding to the lamp dangling from a hook over the prow. “Nothing’s as likely to arouse suspicion as the sight of us trying to sneak through the shadows.”
“Another good idea,” Borand agreed. “I’ll get it.” He pulled a bundle of matches from his shirt, torched one, and lit the lamp to bring their own little circle of light onto the dark coastal waters. Datann felt terribly exposed, wanted to hunker down below the gunwales. It took all of her willpower to avoid acting on her fear, but she managed to sit tall, just as if she absolutely belonged here. Perhaps, she told herself, trying to inject a burst of confidence… perhaps she did belong here!
Soon they were approaching the vast, open harbor where the city’s numerous ferries docked. Some of these were small boats, no different from the one Darann had commandeered, but a few were larger, raftlike craft that plied regular routes to some of the city’s near environs. Each of these had many lamps, and when one glided past within two hundred yards, they could hear raucous laughter, the clink of toasting glasses as a large group of dwarves embarked on some jovial excursion.
Darann steered away from these big boats, making for a quiet section of the harbor. She had seen ports on Nayve, where breakwaters were regularly placed to block waves and, incidentally, channel boat traffic. She was grateful that no such barriers were necessary on the stormless Darksea. The entire anchorage faced open water. Several small boats glided nearby, but neither the rowers nor their passengers paid any attention to the four dwarves approaching the crowded waterfront. She steered them away from the traffic, and as they drew near to the shore they slipped between a couple of tall, empty docks. Feeling a little better now that they were concealed among the pilings, she had her brother paddle them in as close to shore as possible.
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