The Shadow Eater (The Dominions of Irth Book 2)

by A. Attanasio

  He looked closer and distinguished that the large forge was but a vent that had been stove through the rock to a molten interior. It gushed with planet fire.

  He searched for the smithy dwarf and found no one in the vault save his own tremulous shadows. His eyes played over the anvil stones draped with glittering works-in-progress—armbands woven with magical sigils, daggers bound by conjure-wire to hilts of fused hex-gems, and a cuirass etched all over by magical script fine as spiderwork.

  With a marveling hand he reached out to touch the slick dagger blade whose surface throbbed with fiery reflections.

  "Touch and be touched!" a deep bass voice boomed from behind.

  Old Ric spun about, bone sliver wagging in his frightened grip. Out of a smoky side passage, a dwarf came hurtling, hairless and red-eyed as any dwarf but with white flesh scorched blue-black across its featureless face and over its immense hands.

  A large faceted hammer in a raised fist shook threateningly. Old Ric gulped and summoned forth all his courage.

  "Halt, Blue Tipoo!" the gnome managed to scream at the charging dwarf, and slashed the bright air with the bone sliver. "Halt or be pierced by the bone of the world serpent!"

  Blue Tipoo pulled up short. The red beads of its eyes flashed in the singed mask of its face. It scrutinized the trespasser. "You wear the Master's Necklace of Souls!" Its thick body quaked, and its heavy apron of blackened hide bulged as if about to split apart. "You—you—"

  "I am Old Ric, an eldern gnome of Nemora," he announced to the apoplectic dwarf. "And I am dead." With his free hand he plucked at the arrow piercing his chest.

  The swollen dwarf deflated with a surprised gasp. "You are a gnomish deadwalker!" Its slash of a mouth gaped like a toad's. "How came you to take the Necklace of Souls from the fastness of the dwarves?"

  "Never mind," Old Ric said, remembering the witch's admonition. "I am here to have this bone shaped to a sword. Do it or..."

  "Or what?"

  "...or I will pierce you with it—and Blue Tipoo will craft no more amulets," the gnome added with as much threat as he could muster.

  "Hah!" Blue Tipoo swung the ponderous hammer over its blunt head. "I see it all now. The dwarves have sent you to slay me! Ingrates! Rebels! They cannot stop me from preparing for the Master's return! I must make his weapons. They will not stop me!"

  With one eye on the swinging hammer, Old Ric nudged closer and jabbed with the bone sliver. "Hush, Blue Tipoo! I am Old Ric, a gnomish magician of Nemora. I do not serve dwarves! You will make this bone of the world serpent into a sword, and I will let you live to continue working for your master's return. Deny me and die!"

  "Bah!" Blue Tipoo lunged and the sweeping arc of the hammer brushed past the gnome's pug nose.

  Old Ric skipped backward with a yelp, banged into an anvil stone, scattering hex-gems and springs of conjure-wire, and toppled to his back. The arrow shoved farther through him with a mortal pang that cut a scream from the bottom of his lungs.

  His face and eyes stretched wide with hurt, and he saw the big hammer flying toward him at the instant Blue Tipoo released it. He hauled himself after his scream as if it were a taut wire strung into the sightless heights where he had hurled it, and his body dodged the heavy projectile by a fraction so narrow its thunderous impact shoved him aside.

  Again the impaled arrow rammed agonizingly in him, this time backward, twisting a blinding shriek from his depths.

  In a daze of suffering, the gnome pulled around to confront his assailant and blew bubbles of blood from his gaping mouth.

  The scorched dwarf did not move. It stared past him, thick hands reaching out nervously to where the witch stood. Unseen, she had entered swiftly and seized the big hammer. Lifting it with both her bloody hands, she stood poised to drop it into the forge flames.

  "Stop!" The dwarf pranced in horror.

  "Blue Tipoo," the soft, insistent voice of the witch rose above the surf noise of the blazing forge. "You will do exactly as I say, or I will drop your hammer into the fire."

  "You must not!" The dwarf edged forward and stopped with a jolt when the witch suspended the hammer closer to the fire. "Why do this to me?"

  "Because I know that this hammer is your power, Blue Tipoo. It is the strength that Duppy Hob has granted you. With it, you need neither food nor drink and may work endlessly creating the weapons for the host that your master will bring with him out of the Gulf. But without it—" She swayed the hammer through the fireglow, and the dwarf groaned with fright. "Without it, you are no more than a common dwarf. One touch of the bone from the world serpent and you will fall to the ground for what you are—a maggot starved for dragon's flesh."

  "Give back my hammer!" the dwarf demanded, this time pleading.

  "If you do as I tell you,” the witch assured the dwarf, “you shall have your hammer back, and we shall leave you as we found you."

  The dwarf's oversize hands fell submissively to its sides. "What do you want of me?"

  "Two simple deeds for one such as you, possessed of such magical skill." The witch passed the hammer close to the forge flames to keep the dwarf's attention sharp. "Remove one crystal prism from the Necklace of Souls while keeping the Necklace intact and in place about this gnome."

  "A moment's work," the dwarf promised. "And the second deed?"

  "Work this whittled bone of the world serpent into a magical sword with a Charmed haft and handguard."

  "That is all?" the gnome asked incredulous. "You will return my hammer for these two small deeds?"

  "Gnome—" The witch motioned with a sway of her hood for Ric to rise. "The world serpent's rib. Give it to Blue Tipoo.”

  Old Ric did as he was told, and the dwarf received the lethal bone gingerly with tongs from a nearby anvil stone.

  Blue Tipoo carried the long bone to a workbench across the chamber. "In the Master's arsenal are many swords. It is but a moment's work to replace any one of their blades of conjure-steel with this wicked bone," he muttered as he went.

  He bent to the task, shaping the long bone with hasps and chisels. From a cranny in his cave, he retrieved a gold sword with a curved blade. "Who are you?" he asked as he worked. "Who are you to trespass my smithy?"

  "I am the one who holds your hammer above the forge fires," the witch replied tersely. "And my arms grow weary."

  "Done!" the dwarf barked in triumph and upheld an ivory sword fitted to a haft of gold coils. "The serpent's sword!"

  "Now the crystal prism," the witch demanded. "And be swift. My grip is failing."

  Blue Tipoo approached Old Ric with pliers in one hand and a coil of iridescent conjure-wire in the other. The dwarf remained perfectly still as the dwarf coiled the wire about three of the gems. A burnt smell lingered about the smith, a carbon stench of something charred.

  The gnome watched the dwarf’s tiny red eyes directing its big and surprisingly nimble fingers. Metal snicked and the pliers twisted. The ends of the tool magically incandesced, fusing metal and reshaping it like wax.

  The dwarf talked while working: "It is good you take the Master's Necklace away from the rebels. It is good, for I have made sufficient weapons for the Master—enough to conquer this world and all the Bright Worlds!"

  Its red eyes stole a glance at Old Ric's watchful face. "The days of murder are yet to come, gnome. And the Master's warriors shall be merry with pain and cold and disaster. Nothing shall thwart them when the time comes. And it comes soon. Oh yes. Soon, Duppy Hob shall return, and his lightest word shall again be unbreakable law!"

  "My arms are weary, Blue Tipoo!" the witch admonished. "Be quick—or your master loses his smith."

  "I am swift!" the dwarf declared, and stepped back, tossing aside the glowing pliers and unspooling the conjure-wire. "Lo!" It upheld one crystal prism between its blackened fingers.

  Old Ric touched the Necklace to be sure it remained intact and rejoiced to see that it fit more securely across his chest and no longer dangled against the piercing arrow. He steppe
d toward the workbench where the serpent sword lay.

  The dwarf stopped him by putting one finger against the tip of the impaled arrow. "My hammer first."

  The witch cast the hammer into a gloomy corner of the chamber. "Take the crystal prism and get the sword, gnome."

  The gnome snatched the crystal prism from the dwarf's big fingers, and Blue Tipoo shoved him aside to get at its hammer.

  Obediently, Old Ric hurried to the workbench. When he put his hands to the sword, it felt Charmed—airy and nimble. The gold-coil haft seemed to shape itself to his grip, and he felt a luminosity course through his bones as he hefted it.

  "Stop marveling, gnome!" the witch called sternly. "Come away!"

  Old Ric hurried to the witch's side, and she shoved him into the lava tube by which they had entered. He turned and looked back to see the dwarf retrieve its hammer. With a furious yell, it thudded the ponderous tool against the rock wall, and the mountain itself shook, drizzling sand and pebbles over the gnome.

  "Ha! Who says you may go?" the dwarf called out belligerently and charged after them. "You who invaded the Master's keep and disturbed the Master's work must die!"

  Blue Tipoo descended on them, hammer swinging.

  Old Ric yelled with incoherent alarm, for there was no place for the witch to flee. The gnome cringed with fright—and the large hammer slashed through the witch's vaporous body and clanged vibrantly against the rock wall.

  Like smoke, the witch healed, and clapped her hands. Small lightnings crackled over the hammer's faceted head, electric blue writhings that crawled along the shaft and bit the dwarf's hands.

  It released the hammer with a yelp, and the phantom witch seized the implement before it hit the ground. With a deft twist of her body that flung the hood back from her mangled head and exposed her slashed features, she tossed the hammer. It arced past the cringing dwarf and, with a gust of sparks, plunged into the blazing forge.

  "My soul's own creature is slain!" Blue Tipoo blathered, then screamed like sheet metal ripping. "The work of the Master is undone!"

  The witch had vanished, and Old Ric did not strive to search further, because the smithy gushed with spinning sparks and clots of green flame.

  The walls of the lava tube shook, and the gnome launched forward with all his strength. He clutched the serpent sword in one hand and the solitary crystal prism in the other. Once only he glanced back, at the end of the cramped tunnel. A crimson fireball veined with green lightning swelled toward him.

  Old Ric heaved himself out of the tubular passage and into a grotto. Blowtorch heat filled the cavern and jags of lightning stabbed among stalactites and mineral stumps. Livid colors leaped from glossy walls, and the ground shook, heaving the gnome off his feet.

  Hands lifted him by the back of his vest and jerked him upright. Broydo's green hair and icy eyes shone brightly in the glow of the conflagration. "I've been searching the bowels of this volcano for you!" his gruff voice shouted above the gushing flames and the peal of bursting rocks. "This way!"

  The elf pulled the gnome after him into a cleft of shuddering walls. The vibrating rock crevice scraped at them, squeezing them so tightly they could not heave a cry. Abruptly, the crawlspace widened before a blue shaft of dayshine. They collapsed into the open under a plutonic cloud of black smoke. The ground shivered like a beast.

  Broydo led their charge downhill until exhaustion reclaimed him. When he fell to his knees, Old Ric pressed the serpent sword into the elf's hand. The sword itself seemed to lift Broydo to his feet. Its Charm coursed through his limbs and fitted him with the strength to continue his flight.

  Again, he took the lead, casting fearful looks over his shoulder to gauge the slide of rock slabs behind them. He veered, and the gnome followed. A fuming avalanche swept away the slope alongside them.

  Cracks appeared in the flanks of the cinder cone, jetting steam and green flares of Charmed fire. Empowered by the serpent sword, Broydo leaped fissures with Old Ric at his side. The two ran only paces ahead of the collapsing mountainside. The deafening tumult carryied them as on a wave.

  A column of twisting green energy spiraled into the sky, shattering the volcano and hurling swarms of rocks like an exploding hive. Giant harps of electricity twanged out of the billowing sky, igniting the crests of surrounding crags. And the clamor made the very horizon shiver.

  Pursued by Dwarves

  From the lava bed of glassy sand, the two runners paused and looked back. Where the cinder cone had stood only an immense crater remained exhaling a torrent of churning smoke. Green flames danced upon the summits of the surrounding peaks, and a din of subterranean thunder vibrated underfoot.

  "We are alive!" Broydo announced with loud disbelief.

  "You yet live," Old Ric agreed, then tapped with his finger the arrowhead of the shaft lodged in his chest. "And I remain a deadwalker."

  "Would you rather be back there?" Broydo swept an arm at the cataclysmic landscape where sheets of green fire flapped among the boiling smoke of the pit. "Let us away, gnome, and swiftly."

  Old Ric scanned the ruinous land. "Which way shall we go?"

  "Away from this evil place and away from the dwarves' fastness." The elf pointed toward the shale ridges beyond the talus slopes. "We must get the Necklace of Souls to my clan as quickly as possible. That direction takes us farther away from the Forest of Wraiths, but it avoids the Labyrinth of the Undead."

  "And where is the witch?" The gnome held the crystal prism to the sky, hoping to alert the witch to their presence. No cowled figure appeared among the stony land's broken shadows.

  "Perhaps she perished with Blue Tipoo," Broydo said pensively, and pressed the serpent sword to his chest, grateful for its Charm. "There is no water in the Labyrinth, and without the witch we may never find our way through. I can live on Charm for a while, but I must drink eventually—unless I am to become a deadwalker, too."

  Old Ric agreed, and they began their trek toward the shale ridges. Nightfall found them climbing the stony ledges. As the witch had foretold, the gnome needed no sleep, and Broydo, too, was able to continue drawing strength from the serpent sword and to continue marching. Luminescent chains of stars lit their way, and by midnight they crested the ridge and stood under the cold faces of the planets.

  Looking back the way they had come, they saw the collapsed cinder cone glowing green amid dense vapors from the underground blaze. Phosphorescent sparks eerily flurried across the wide volcanic plain, sifting toward them through the dark.

  "What are they?" Old Ric asked, the slim light about his arrow-pierced body shining suddenly brighter.

  "I don't know," the elf replied, "but they are following us—and they are moving fast."

  "They are dwarves," a silken voice said from behind them. The witch drifted from out of the dark as if carried by the wind.

  "Witch!" Broydo gasped, and the serpent sword quavered in his grip.

  "You abandoned us in Blue Tipoo's mountain!" Old Ric accused.

  The witch seemed woven of the night's own fabric. "I could not stay—not in the presence of the green fire."

  "Charmfire," Broydo said. "Why did you leave us to the charmfire then?"

  "I trusted you to save yourselves," the witch answered forth-rightly. "And you did. But if I had remained, I would have perished."

  "Why?" the gnome asked puzzled. "What of your magic?"

  "Surely, you know," the witch said. "I am less substantial than you, and the green fire would have wafted me away no matter my magic."

  "Insubstantial?" Old Ric scowled without understanding. "I saw you lift and throw the smith's hammer."

  "The magic of the hammer gave me strength," she answered simply. "But once the Charm was broken, I had to escape."

  Broydo nodded with dawning comprehension. "You are a wraith."

  "Certainly, you must have known all along," the witch insisted and drifted closer. "Why else would I require a crystal prism from the Necklace of Souls?"

  "But what wi
ll you do with the prism?" the gnome asked, stepping back a pace.

  "That is no concern of yours, gnome." The witch stood in silhouette against the stellar fires. "You have your own work to do. I will show you the way from here to the clan of elves in the Forest of Wraiths. And then, we shall part. But we must hurry." Her cowl nodded toward the swarming phosphorescent lights upon the shale cliffs below. "The dwarves pursue. They will not relent until they retrieve the Necklace of Souls."

  "You seek vengeance upon the ones who maimed you so horribly," Broydo ventured, glancing nervously down at the dwarves.

  "That is a reasonable supposition, elf. But no, I seek no vengeance upon them, for they are far beyond my reach." The witch held out her bloodstained hand. "Give me the crystal prism that is mine."

  The gnome looked to the elf, and Broydo nodded. Old Ric stepped forward but did not remove his hands from where he had stuffed them in his pockets. "You abandoned us on the mountain. Before I give you the crystal prism, you must lead us away from this dismal place and the dwarves who stalk us. You must take us back to Broydo's clan in the Forest of Wraiths."

  The witch seemed to shrink. "Very well. We are not far from your destination. Follow me closely."

  Shining a spectral green in the dark, the witch and the gnome lit the slag terrain one step ahead, and Broydo had no trouble finding his footing.

  The serpent sword continued to provide him strength, though his throat felt parched as leather and the flesh of his hands and face became drawn and desiccated. Whenever the thought of rest intruded, he glanced behind and found motivation in the sight of numerous incandescent sparks cutting their own paths through the darkness.

  Dawn arrived colorless above the desert of lava dust and rimrock. Onward they drifted, speechless and vagrant as sand devils. Late in the day, before a urinous twilight, they climbed ledges of slick black rock where trickles of water inspired the perilous growth of rock orchids and scarlet air plants.