“Aye,” he grunted.
“I’m glad, Tuvallis. You saved my life. I know that doesn’t bring back your family, and the people you killed, but for me it seems like it’s one step closer to redemption.”
Tuvallis thought about it. It did feel good to help Seli, and it felt very good to talk about it. Maybe she was right. Maybe that was why he was breaking down the wall of solitude that he had built for so many years. Maybe he needed to restore the balance. “I like that,” was all he said as he looked back into the crackling flames.
They awoke the next morning and quickly prepared to depart. Seli could barely stand, and Tuvallis stared at her, momentarily wondering how she would make the trek to find her comrades.
She caught his stare. “I’ll be fine. I just need to get my body warmed up,” she said to him as she winced trying to lift her arms to stretch.
“You sure nothing is broken?”
“I think maybe some ribs are cracked. And my right arm is swollen and painful,” she said as she gently touched her red and obviously swollen forearm.
“They beat ya up bad,” Tuvallis said matter-of-factly.
“Yes, but the beating wasn’t as bad as what would have happened next. Thank you again for coming to my aid. Not many would have risked it, being so outnumbered.”
Tuvallis grunted as he turned and hefted his pack to his broad shoulders.
Seli was able to salvage her shoes, but all she had to wear were her torn leggings and Tuvallis’s oversized shirt. The morning air was frigid and she had thought about trying to use one of the orc’s cloaks, but it stunk so bad she gave up on that.
Tuvallis had strapped her armor and sword to the back of his pack as she was in no condition to wear it.
He looked at her as she hugged her naked arms to her body for warmth. “You gonna be okay?” he asked.
She smiled. “I’m just cold. Believe it or not I’ve dealt with worse.”
“When was that?”
“Two summers ago. I took a Tulga javelin to the stomach.” The Tulgas were a particularly violent tribe that lived in the eastern part of the Sithgarin Desert. “It ripped up my insides good and I was forced to sit in the back of a wagon for a week in temperature that could cook an egg on our armor. I would have died if our captain hadn’t had a healing draught. As it was, I barely made the trip back to Cuthaine. And the pain was something that I hope to never experience again. Look at the scar,” Seli said as she lifted up her shirt to expose her belly.
Tuvallis had seen the scar when he was cleaning her wounds. It was gruesome alright, not the normal scar one would expect from a javelin wound. The wound was round, puffed out and covered with thick white skin. It looked like a craggy mountain range just to the left of her belly button.
Seli noticed his expression. “I know what you’re thinking. How could a javelin cause a scar like that? Well the wound got infected and my flesh began to eat away. By the time I got to a surgeon he could not fix it properly.” Seli shuddered briefly. “In Bandris’s name I can still smell the rot.”
“Enough of this pleasant talk,” Tuvallis said with the best smile he could muster. “Let us be on our way.” He knew it looked lame, but it felt good to be smiling again.
Two
Allies
Kiln and Borum slowly circled each other. Sweat glistened on their bare torsos and their controlled breathing was the only thing that could be heard in the empty map room that doubled as Kiln’s practice hall. It was spacious and void of anything except for a huge oak table near the north wall currently covered with a plethora of maps and other military documents that kept Kiln busy late into the evenings.
Borum was the master-at-arms, the best swordsman in the Finarthian army, the man who trained the elite swordsmen. He was the one who tested anyone worthy of the master mark and he was the only swordsman in Finarth who had the master mark himself since the death of Prince Nelstrom. For that reason he was the only warrior capable of training with Kiln, of raising steel to steel with arguably the finest blade wielder in all of Kraawn.
Borum was past his prime, but so was Kiln if age were the only criteria. Neither of them, however, let age diminish their confidence. The master-at-arms was thin, sinewy, and physically unassuming. His dark leathery skin had seen over fifty summers and the wrinkles around his eyes were testament not only to those many years of hard work under the sun, but also of many years under the visor of a metal helm scanning a battlefield. He had shaved his balding head many years ago and his scalp was smooth in contrast to the wrinkles that lined his face.
Kiln was an anomaly for his age. He moved with the quick step and bounce of a warrior half his age, and his jet black hair had only a few lonely strands of silver that stood out like diamonds in a coal mound. His angular face sported a thin layer of neatly trimmed black hair covering his sharp chin. Silver dusted the beard where it tapered into his side burns and thinly trimmed moustache. Kiln’s intense gray blue eyes glowed like the eyes of a winter wolf reflecting the midnight moon. He was a killer, born to wield a sword, and everyone around him could sense it. The strength of his aura permeated his surroundings, leaving no question that he was not to be taken lightly.
They each wore loose cotton leggings and soft leather shoes that barely made a sound as they danced across the cold flat stones. The fight had started some time ago, which was about as long as the first act of a play performed by traveling entertainers. The point of the contest was not necessarily to win, but to work on precision, speed, and to maintain the muscle and lung fitness needed for long intense battles. Each blade master moved as if the weapon were an extension of themselves as they performed the many different positions and movements that had been ingrained in them since their youth when they had first wrapped their small hands around the cold grip of a sword.
But the session had to end at some point, and for as long as they had trained together, it had always been Kiln’s blade that finished the contest.
Borum’s eyes shone with intensity as he grunted with effort, flicking his blade smoothly and grazing it over Kiln’s razor sharp edge as the commander lunged forward.
But it was a ruse, and Borum saw it at the last moment. Kiln was not trying to skewer the master-at-arms, Borum knew that. He was just trying to bait him into taking the seemingly appropriate path to counter the lunge, and Borum’s body reacted on instinct just the way Kiln had hoped. As Kiln’s blade was deflected down, Borum quickly reversed the direction of his sword by snapping it back towards Kiln, hoping that he was fast enough, but knowing that he was not. Kiln stepped forward so smoothly that Borum didn’t even see his feet move. Then the master-at-arms felt an iron grip on the wrist that was holding his sword, ironically the same hand that bore the master mark, and an eye blink later he was flying through the air to land hard on his back. His sword clattered to the floor as Kiln twisted his wrist, pivoting his arm so that the tension felt like it would break at the elbow.
“I thought this was a sword fight,” Borum said through gritted teeth.
Kiln flashed a smile and released the man’s hand. “It’s a fight that started out with swords. I never said it would end that way,” Kiln said as he helped Borum to his feet.
“Where did you learn that?” Borum asked as he rubbed his elbow. He was clearly impressed with the throw.
“A Sharneen chief taught it to me many years ago,” Kiln replied.
After Kiln had left the service of King Uthrayne Gavinsteal, his longtime friend, he wanted to get as far away from Finarth as he could. So he headed east, trying to distance himself from the pain of seeing the love of his life marry his best friend. He had been reviled by his people for breaking his oath to his land and king. But he did not care. His pain and anger destroyed all common sense. He had to leave. It was then that he found the Sharneen, a fierce people that lived many miles beyond the Sithgarin Desert. He spent a handful of years there, sharing his knowledge of war, and gaining much more in return.
Just then the large oak dou
ble doors flew open and a Finarthian knight briskly entered the room. “Sir, I’m sorry to interrupt but I have an urgent message,” he said as he banged his fist to his armored chest in salute.
“It is fine, Darius, we were just finishing. What is it?” Kiln asked.
“Sir, dwarves from Dwarf Mount have just arrived.”
Kiln looked at the knight with new interest. “Dwarves…how many?”
“A thousand, sir,” Darius replied.
“An entire akron? That is good news,” Kiln said smiling. It was the best news that he had heard in over a month.
“The king has requested your council immediately,” Darius said.
“Very well. Master Borum, if you will excuse me,” Kiln said as he reached out and shook the warrior’s hand, forearm to hand, the traditional warriors’ grip.
“Until next time, Commander,” Borum said.
“Sir,” Darius said as he turned towards Borum, “the king wishes your attendance as well.”
Borum raised his eyebrows questioningly towards Kiln who merely shrugged in reply. “Thank you, Darius,” Borum said as he slid a cotton shirt over his sweaty torso. “After you, Commander,” he said as he gestured towards the door.
Three dwarves sat at the big oak table with King Baylin. Ballick had just slammed back a goblet of ale and banged it on the table when the door swung open as Kiln and Borum were escorted in.
Ballick’s beard was an unruly tangle of amber, but it was his wide crooked nose that directed the eye’s attention. It had been broken three times and looked as if it still was. The stout dwarf was wearing shining mithril mail dusted with dirt from the long road.
With him were two other dwarves, seemingly indistinguishable from the other. They were both built like a typical dwarf, but even wider at the shoulders, and their long beards looked just like Ballick’s but much lighter, almost blonde. Their armor, too, was of the finest quality and Kiln could make out the glittering flash of an axe blade strapped to each of their broad backs. Strangely, they each wore a thick chain wrapped around their waist.
They stood as Kiln approached them and his eyes couldn’t help but stare at their bald heads, atypical for a dwarf. A blue tattoo meandered around their heads like an undulating snake, and Kiln noticed that the snake, if that’s what it actually was, was cut into many segments.
He had heard of dwarfs such as these belonging to the Dwarf Mount clan far to the north. They were called Dakeen, warriors tested by deed to be the dwarf king’s personal guard. He did not know if the stories he had heard were true, as he had never met a Dakeen dwarf, nor many other dwarves for that matter since they seldom ventured far from their tunnels and precious metals. But Dakeen were even rarer as they never left their king’s side. Until now, Kiln corrected himself. It was said that any dwarf desiring to be Dakeen, had to venture out on their own and defeat ten powerful opponents, fierce adversaries such as dragons, giants, and demons or other inhabitants from the lower planes. They must be opponents that few would have the courage to face, let alone be able to defeat. All Dakeen had their heads shaven clean and each kill would be marked by a segment of the tattoo. To guarantee the legitimacy of the marks, they were tested magically by the king’s wizards, their minds probed for the truth…that was if they were lucky enough to return. The wizards could detect any lie or untruth. The king would then make the final decision whether they were worthy of the title based on their kills. It often took years for these warriors to accomplish such difficult feats, and even if they finally did, and managed to return home, there was no guarantee that all their kills would be considered worthy of Dakeen. Only the king decided this. And it was a rare occasion indeed for a Dakeen to leave his king’s side. Yet here were two standing before him.
“Greetings, Togric Master Trader, I am Kiln, commander of the Finarthian forces. This is my master at arms, Captain Borum.” Kiln shook hands with the red haired dwarf as did Borum. Togric was the dwarf term for second rank master trader, and Kiln knew that the red bearded dwarf claimed that title from the series of beads that interlaced his beard.
“I see ya be knowin’ somethin’ bout dwarven rank. That is good. Commander, me name’s Ballick, and I bring with me a thousand dwarves eager to stain their steel. At me side is Dakeen Tolvar and Cade, but the name Dakeen gets them both listening as it’s impossible to tell who is who, them bein’ twins and all.”
“Well met,” the brothers said in unison.
They all sat down at the table.
“Commander Kiln, Master Ballick arrived just recently,” King Baylin said as he sat down. “We need to find accommodations for the men and officers and figure out how they may best fit into our preparations. Captain Borum, I’d like you to help with this task.”
“Yes, my King.”
“It will be done,” Kiln added. “Master Ballick, thank you for coming and we greatly appreciate your support, not to mention the honor of having your king send two of his Dakeen. Was it our scouts that informed you of our need?”
“Aye, they came, but we caught them on the road,” Ballick grunted.
“How did you know…,” Borum began before King Baylin cut him off with a gesture of his hand.
“Master Borum, Ballick was delivering trade goods to Tarsis when they saw the destruction. They were attacked shortly after by orcs. Everyone was slain except Ballick and the first rank trader…,” the king faltered as the name would not come to him.
“Durgen be his name,” Ballick said, “and his only son was killed in that raid. He bid me to Dwarf Mount to raise the king’s standard while he went after his revenge. I do not know his whereabouts now.”
“Your prompt arrival and help is much appreciated, Master Ballick,” the king said sincerely.
“King Hammerstriker was eager to dust off his hammer and join in this fight, but his council bid against it. They did not want to leave Dwarf Mount unprotected and kingless. But he sent two of his Dakeen in his stead, and as you appropriately mentioned, that is a great honor,” Ballick replied.
“Again, our thanks. We are stretched tight with sleeping quarters but we will do everything in our power to accommodate you,” the king said.
“Bah, we are dwarves, we do not need much. A place to lay down for a start, and we have two weeks rations left, three if we stretch it,” Ballick replied. “How much time do we have before the vermin arrive?”
“Our scouts have had difficulty getting information back to us,” Kiln replied, “but we just received reports that Cuthaine was destroyed three moons ago and Malbeck’s army is still there. That puts him three weeks out, but we don’t know when he will leave Cuthaine.”
“I see. King Baylin, we have marched hard and I’d like to rest my men. Also, we have brought with us engineers and sappers. After viewing your fortifications on the way in, I believe we may be of help,” Ballick said with no hint of criticism.
“I know the worth of dwarven engineers and I welcome any help. Kiln, please see to their accommodations and show them around tomorrow,” the king ordered.
“Very well. Master Borum here will find a suitable place for your men. I will send a messenger to your room at first light,” Kiln said as he stood up. “See to it,” he added as he pivoted towards the master at arms. Kiln patted the weapon’s master on the arm as he caught the soldier’s worried expression. Kiln knew that finding suitable quarters for a thousand dwarves would be no easy feat, but he had confidence in Borum and he winked at him before turning back to the dwarves. “Until the morning,” Kiln said to the dwarves as he departed. Each one grunted a response as Kiln turned to the king. “Things are looking up, my King,” he said with a slight smile.
“Indeed,” the king replied, though no smile cracked his iron visage.
Sure enough, Master Borum was able to find quarters for the dwarves. If it were anyone else, the location he found would not have been suitable, but for the dwarves, it was home. Under the king’s inner castle were layers of catacombs, small hallways, and chambers used as wine
cellars and for other storage. The tunnels were dug with low ceilings, a head shorter than most men, but to the dwarves it felt spacious. The dwarves didn’t know it but Borum had an ulterior motive for housing them there. The king’s secret escape route was deep in the catacombs and who better to guard that rear exit than a thousand dwarves. Ballick and the other officers turned some dusty anterooms into sleeping quarters and they stayed in the damp darkness with their men. It was wet, dark, and dusty, but it bothered the sturdy warriors not at all.
The following morning Kiln met with Ballick, and Tooley, his head engineer, a cantankerous old warrior with more scars and age lines on his face than a battle king who had spent the last hundred years in the hot sun. Old scars crossed his cheeks and his skin was so wrinkled that it looked like he was perpetually squinting. Dirty, scraggly, and unruly hair covered most of his face except for his cheeks and eyes. Even his lips were invisible, buried deep in the hairy confines of his mustache and beard. He wore old ill-fitting armor, dented and battle worn, but nonetheless polished to a bright sheen. Hanging from his side was a heavy, and obviously well used, battle hammer.
Kiln, accompanied by his five personal bodyguards, escorted the duo to the front gate to look at the preparations. Everywhere one looked townspeople were busy preparing for the coming siege. Commanders directed soldiers and civilians alike in the endless tasks of making the city defensible. The tension in the air was palpable as the seriousness of their situation became increasingly apparent as the days progressed. The dwarves noticed none of this, however, as their critical eyes scanned the fortifications around them.
As the dwarves looked over the fortifications, they watched the training of the common people, those able to fight, in the empty fields beyond the city gate. It was slow going and not without frustration, but the capable officers led by Lathrin, Third Lance, were turning the thousands of commoners into a decent fighting force. They would never hold their own against a trained akron, but they could now maneuver well, and most could use a shield and sword almost as well as a first year untried recruit.
The Cavalier Trilogy: Book 03 - Glimmer in the Shadow Page 5
