by Doug Niles
The draconian roared, rising to its rear legs and snatching up its sword with a taloned forepaw. Down the road, the dwarf emerged from the woods, retreating from attackers, swinging his bloodstained axe, the haft clutched in both hands. Two brown draconions—baaz—flanked him, hissing and snapping furiously, held at bay by the skillfully wielded axe.
The black draconian, spotting the dwarf, hesitated, casting a glance at the two dead men slain by the crossbows, next at the pair of baaz engaged in fierce battle with dwarf, and finally at the crest of the ridge, where the road vanished against the skyline some two hundred yards away. After only a moment’s pause, the kapak made up its mind, turning from the battle, once again dropping to all fours, and racing up the road toward the crest.
The human rider saw that the dwarf was hard-pressed, for now a third brown draconian joined his attackers. But the dwarf could take care of himself. One stride took the human to his gelding, which had been standing nearby, shivering and wide-eyed during the fight. He threw himself into the saddle with an easy spring, kicked the horse’s flanks, and snatched up the reins.
The horse sprang forward, head low, exploding into an almost instantaneous gallop. The twin crossbows were gone from view, tucked beneath his cape again, though the man made no move to draw the great sword that he wore strapped to his back. Instead, he pulled a shorter blade, single-edged and curved, from beneath his cape. The black kapak was in a full sprint, only a hundred yards from the crest of the ridge … eighty … sixty. The creature’s black wings were flapping, adding speed, while the sinuous tail stretched out straight behind it.
The man’s horse was fast. The kapak was still forty yards away from the summit when the steed drew up, ignoring the leathery wing that swatted the gelding’s lathered shoulder. Wielding the cutlass in his left hand, the rider brought the weapon down in a single, speedy sweep, a blow that sliced the draconian’s head cleanly from its shoulders. Even as he followed through with the blow, the man pulled the horse to the side, away from the spatter of acid that immediately erupted from the decapitated corpse. The kapak, in the way of its kind, immediately dissolved.
Turning sharply, the rider steered the animal through a tight semicircle and back down the road toward his companion. By the time he drew up at the side of the road, the three baaz were dead, their bodies lying grotesquely rigid—in their cursed fashion—in the poses they held when they died.
The dwarf was cleaning his axe on a dirty fringe of his tunic. He eyed the crest of the ridge. “I think that’s all of ’em … so far. Help me pull these bastards into the brush,” he said.
The man nodded, dismounting. Together they rolled, tumbled, and pulled the three petrified corpses off the road, dumping them in the underbrush. They did the same with the two humans the warrior had shot with his small crossbows. Up the road, the kapak had fully dissolved. The remains left a smoking scar of acid on the side of the road, but there was nothing they could do about that.
Swiftly reloading his two crossbows, the rider pulled himself back into his saddle and looked questioningly at the dwarf.
“Can’t stop and rest now,” grunted that stocky fighter. “Too bad. My backside could use a break from that saddle.”
The human waited silently as the dwarf clomped over to his horse, shaking his head irritably. He grabbed the pommel, kicked a foot into the stirrup, and with surprising grace pulled himself up and astride the animal.
“Let’s go make a call on Cornellus,” he said as, once again, as the two of them continued side by side up the trail.
CHAPTER TWO
THE STRONGHOLD OF CORNELLUS
Two riders mounted a low and rounded ridgetop and came again into view of the great crest of the Garnet Range. A mile away, they saw the fortress sprawling across the slope. They halted and made sure they were observed by the guards.
This was the stronghold, known throughout the Garnet Range, of the bandit lord Cornellus the Large. The walled compound aspired to be a fortress but looked more like a series of mountainside shacks that had gradually expanded over the course of the centuries. An irregular wall surrounded the place, but because of the ascending slope beyond the outer barrier the two could see a maze of buildings within that crenellated battlement.
“That’s the place,” the dwarf noted laconically. “Looks just like it did fifty years ago when the old toad spent most of his time robbing from the mountain dwarves. Of course, maybe Cornel has mellowed in his old age,” he added, before spitting contemptuously.
The human rider, his eyes narrowed, made no reply as he studied the crude fortress. A stout main gate blocked passage to the inner courtyard, and several smaller gates were set in the walls before corrals and other yards to either side. The steep slope rising beyond the stronghold served as a rear barrier. That ground was impassable for a horse, dangerous for a man, and eventually merged into the face of a cliff that formed one of the ramparts of the Garnet Range. There was no chance for attack or stealthy approach from that quarter.
Hooded figures were visible atop each of the two towers flanking the front gate. Others, bristling with speartips, patrolled the ramparts. By now most of the guards were staring at the two riders, and when one turned to speak to his companions, his profile revealed the outline of a long snout.
“Yep, ol’ Cornellus has got plenty of draconians for his guards, now,” the dwarf said in disgust. He chuckled. “Minus a few of ’em that he thinks are guarding his road.”
The horses, as if glad to be done with the long climb, moved forward eagerly, the gelding even trotting a couple of paces until the warrior reined it in. At a steady walk they approached the gate, finally coming to a halt a stone’s throw from the barrier.
“We seek entry to the Stronghold of Cornellus,” the dwarf declared loudly. “Open the gate!”
A bozak draconian appeared above them, standing on a platform on the other side of the wall. He wore a bronze helmet and leather armor with no insignia. His forked tongue flicked in and out of his reptilian jaws.
“Entry is not granted for free,” he called down. “What payment do you have to offer?”
“We offer our custom at the tavern and the inn,” the dwarf replied. “Our coins are steel.”
The draconian on the gate withdrew from sight. The two riders heard muffled voices followed by the clunk of a heavy latch. With a shudder and a creak, the wooden gate rolled inward, swaying precariously.
“That would collapse with the first touch of a battering ram,” the dwarf observed, letting the noisy gate mask his voice.
The horses’ ears pricked upward in alarm as the opened gate revealed a pair of draconians, each carrying a massive spear. These guards stepped forward aggressively and crossed the hafts of their weapons, blocking passage into the muddy courtyard. The two were brutish baaz, crooked fangs bared in leering grins. With deceptively lazy eyes, yellow and hooded, they observed the riders, while chortling contemptuously. The bozak atop the gate stepped off the high platform, wings spread wide, and glided to the ground in front of the two horses. Rearing back with a nervous whinny, the mare fidgeted while the gelding froze, eyes trained on the reptilian creature.
“One steel apiece is today’s entry fee,” the big draconian declared, holding out a talon-studded paw. He wore gold chains around his neck, fat rings of the same metal on his fingers. With a shrug, the dwarf tossed a pair of shiny coins into the leathery palm. The draconian inspected them for a moment, finally nodding to his spear carriers, who shuffled out of the way.
“All right. You can go in,” he hissed, “but behave yourselves, or you’ll forfeit more than your steel.”
If anything, the man looked bored as he nudged the chestnut gelding toward the large building directly opposite the gate. He didn’t seem to be looking around, yet he saw and noted everything in the walled courtyard. There was a stable to the left, where a couple of men with ringed metal collars shoveled dung out of the stalls. A few horses watched the riders listlessly from a small corral, and a
few more mounts were lashed to a railing. Just beyond, a swinging gate opened as a small, filthy gully dwarf pulled on a rope, releasing a small flock of sheep that went bleating out to the pasture beside the fortress.
A pair of large catapults stood in the courtyard. Each was cocked and loaded with a basket full of jagged, skull-sized boulders. A glance was enough to determine that the weapons were sighted in the general direction of the road the two riders had just traversed.
To the right was a sprawling structure like a barracks or series of sleeping rooms fronted with long porches. The ground floor had a wall of multicolored stones, clearly laid by indifferent masons, while the wooden walls of the upper floor displayed a patchwork of planking, some vertical, some horizontal. Dark windows broke the walls in varying size and irregular placement.
The inn itself was a huge structure. The riders pulled up and dismounted, approaching the railing where two dozen mounts were already tethered. A pair of large warhorses tacked with magnificent saddles snorted, but eventually shifted to make room for the new arrivals. The man lashed the bridles of both their horses to the railing with a quick loop.
The front door of the inn opened, and a young woman dressed in a filmy gown stumbled out, looking around wildly as she was trailed by a burst of raucous laughter. She appeared to be crying but stopped when she saw the dwarf and human. Quickly she turned her face away and started along the front porch toward the barracks. More laughter, roaring peals, came from the great room as a huge brute of a warrior came bursting through the door.
“Where’d she go?” he demanded, as the dwarf started toward the doors.
He was a monstrous fellow, perhaps six and a half feet tall, solid as a bear with arms that dangled well below his waist. His lower jaw jutted in an ugly sneer, a visage that looked to be shaped by more than a fraction of ogre blood.
“Who?” asked the dwarf innocently.
By then, the big fellow had glanced around and spotted the woman, who had been jolted into action by the sight of him and was fleeing. “Hold, there, wench!” he roared, chasing after her with a startling burst of speed.
It was no contest—after two dozen strides he wrapped a big paw around her waist, then snatched her up and, with a bellowed guffaw, tossed her over his shoulder. He swaggered back to the tavern doors, grinning broadly at the dwarf and the human.
“Loosen th’ leash a bit and they run right off on ya!” he noted, before pushing through the doors, bearing his squirming prisoner into the room. He was greeted with whistles, whoops, and heavy stomping. The revelry overwhelmed the uneven notes of a flute, tones that wavered between sharp and flat.
“Just a second,” said the human rider to his dwarf companion. He looked around the corral, his eyes alighting on the gully dwarf.
The dwarf scowled but stood still and waited while the man crossed the courtyard toward the scruffy fellow, who, after opening the gate for the sheep, had promptly sat down in the mud and apparently gone to sleep.
“Hey, you,” the rider said, kicking the pudgy, rounded figure, slumped next to a clean-picked turkey carcass. The gully dwarf was already snoring loudly. “Wake up.”
“Huh?” The gully dwarf, of indeterminate gender and age, glared up at the man. “You not Highbulp, order me around! Me sleep!” the creature declared.
“How’d you like a job?” asked the stranger. He withdrew two steel coins from his pocket, handing one to the suddenly slack-jawed Aghar.
“Sure, a job!” declared the gully dwarf, chomping on the coin and promptly breaking a tooth, then scowling suspiciously. “What I gotta do?”
“It’s simple, little guy. I know this gate opens when that rope gets pulled. When my friend and I come out of the tavern and get on our horses, open the gate for us. I’ll give you the other coin on our way out.”
“Sure!” beamed the Aghar, before another dramatic mood swing brought a glower to his rounded, grimy face. “How I know you pay me?”
“If I don’t pay you,” the man said, patting the creature on the shoulder before turning back to the tavern, “I will owe you double next time I see you.”
The Aghar grinned, a grin that turned to a frown, as he scratched his head and watched the human ambling back to his companion. With a contented sigh, he returned to his nap.
The two travelers pushed open the front doors of the tavern. The setting sun spilled in behind them, brightening the cavernous chamber and turning the room’s collective attention to the new arrivals. The warrior walked as if he was alone and at his ease, barely glancing at anything, but the dwarf studied the room carefully. He glared at a quartet of baaz draconians leering from the table nearest the door, puffed out his chest and strutted as he passed a table of scowling hill dwarves, met the steady, appraising gaze of a pair of Solamnic Knights who stood at the bar, and finally stared down a drunken half-ogre who stumbled into his path. After that, there was a general shifting around, and space cleared for them at the bar.
“Dwarf spirits, a double shot!” the dwarf barked at the harried old barmaid.
“I hear you, don’t have to shout!” she snapped back. She finished drawing ale into a couple of mugs and set them down in front of the two knights, both of whom wore the emblem of the Rose. A miserable-looking goblin, his mouth gagged with a filthy rag while his wrists and ankles were shackled with stout metal manacles, huddled at the feet of one of the Solamnics. The creature was hunched over, holding something small in its clawed hands.
“All right, dwarf spirits—and you?” She looked at the warrior impatiently.
“Do you have any of that red ale from Coastlund?”
She snorted. “I got mead from Thelgaard and yellow ale from Solanthus.”
“Well then, give me dwarf spirits, too. A double shot.”
She slammed down two small, clay glasses and hoisted a jug from behind the bar. It was clearly heavy, but she held it steadily as she trickled each glass full. When they were topped off, she set down the jug, pushed the glasses across the bar and left to wait on a raucous draconian at the other end of the bar.
“Lively place,” the dwarf remarked. He tossed back half of his glass and smacked his lips.
“Yep,” the warrior replied. He took a sip from his own glass and winced as the fire ran across his tongue and down his gullet. “Cornellus always has a wild bunch around.”
They leaned back and watched the musical entertainment for a few minutes. The minstrel was an elf, dressed in patched leather leggings and a threadbare cloak. He alternated between his flute and a mandolin, but whenever his tune verged on melodious the hill dwarves would jeer him into making a mistake, and then the whole room would erupt in laughter.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.” The speaker was the nearer Knight of Solamnia. He had finished his mug and was pulling on his riding gloves as he stonily addressed the warrior. “This is a long way from any place.”
“Easy enough to find,” the warrior replied.
“You look familiar, though. Ever been through Sanction?” asked the knight, scrutinizing the whiskered, weather-beaten face.
The rider shook his head.
“What about Caergoth? I spend lots of time there, in the Ducal Guard. You one of Duke Crawford’s men?”
“Nope.” The stranger took a sip of his spirits.
“Cleaning out the riff-raff?” the dwarf asked the knight, nudging the shackled goblin with his foot. The wretched creature looked up apathetically then lowered his head. In his shackled hands he held a chip of stone, a greenish quartz, clutching the shard to his breast like it was great treasure.
“A rabble-rouser,” said the second knight from behind the first. “Preaching about Hiddukel to all the gobs in the hills. We’re taking him in for a talk with the duke.” He laughed mirthlessly.
The first knight stared at the human warrior until his companion, also gloved, tapped him on the shoulder. Each of them took hold of the hobgoblin’s wrist cuffs and pulled the creature roughly to his feet. Side by side,
one watching to the right and the other left, they walked to the door, yanking the hobgoblin behind them.
“Some nerve, their kind coming up here,” snapped the hag of a barmaid, returning to meet their eyes. She unleashed a toothless grin at the warrior. “Act like they own the place! Still, that Reynaud was looking you over, all right. Like he reckanized you from somewheres …”
The man shrugged.
“Bah, frightened of shadows, them knights,” said the dwarf, extending his glass for a refill.
The crone poured. “Cornel don’t have no use for them knights either, but he tolerates their business. To keep the peace, you know. Still, that hob was a good enough customer. Never bothered no one. Just sat there and rubbed his green stone—sometimes he’d rub it so hard it glowed!”
“Yeah, Cornellus. Now that you mention it, we need to see him,” the warrior said softly.
She blinked and cocked her head as if she hadn’t heard right. Her eyes narrowed, and she leaned over the bar. “Be careful what you ask for. You just might see up him up close and personal.”
“That’s our idea exactly. Can you tell him that we’re here?”
“Who’s here?” she demanded, shaking her head skeptically.
“Dram Feldspar,” said the dwarf, standing and reaching across the bar to shake her hand. “Originally from Kayolin. Tell Cornellus that we’ve brought a bounty he’ll be interested in. He’ll want to see us right quick.”
“It’s your own funeral,” the old woman muttered. “That’ll be two steel,” she said. “I think you better settle up now.”
“Two steel for three drinks?” sputtered the dwarf.
“One steel for the drinks,” she replied, glaring at him. “Another for making me go back there and face Cornellus.”
CHAPTER THREE
A BANDIT LORD
The hag had been gone for about five minutes, her absence arousing an increasingly restive thirst along the length of the bar, when a door slammed somewhere in the back of the room. A sudden hush fell over the chamber as a hulking bozak draconian emerged from the shadows, swaggering and sneering. He held his muscular wings half-spread as he advanced, an arrogant gesture that forced customers to back out of his way or get whipped by one of the stiff, leathery pinions.
