by Doug Niles
“The chain was broken when I passed it an hour ago,” said one of the rescuers, a burly smith by the look of him. “They was workin’ to get it fixed, though.”
“Then let’s get the injured to the station and see what can be done.”
Willing hands lifted those unable to walk, while others limped along with the group.
For the time being the battle had seemed to settle into a quiet stasis. Baker stopped to take a look around his beloved city’s highest level. He could see some of the creatures he called shadow monsters, far down the street from him, slithering around the ruins of several structures. The shadows glided like cats or oozed along the ground.
Baker turned toward the lift, surprised to note that the big blacksmith and several other brawny Hylar were waiting for him.
“What’s your name?” asked the thane, grateful for the company.
“Capper Whetstone, my lord thane, at your service. I would be grateful for the chance to stand at your side. I say with all respect, lord, that you should not be walking around here without protection.”
“Yes, thank you.” He briefly wondered about his earlier bodyguards. He had met them and conversed with them, of course, but now he couldn’t recall their names or anything about them.
“I’ll stay here and keep watch, my lord thane,” offered a new voice, and Baker was surprised to see the Hylar jeweler, his single-lens viewer still hanging from its golden chain. “I’ve got a good eye, and I’ll keep it on those marauding shades down there. I’ll give a holler if they start coming this way.”
Baker was touched by the fellow’s loyalty. “That would be a good service. Just make sure to run while you’re hollering,” he replied.
And then he was struck by a question that suddenly seemed very important. “What’s your name?”
“I am called Emerald-Eye the Younger,” said the Hylar, touching his neatly trimmed beard with his fingers as he performed a deep and formal bow.
By the time Baker and his escort of a half dozen Hylar had neared the lift station, the engineers had made their repairs, and the great cage was rattling up to its landing. Baker was relieved to see that Axel Slateshoulders was returning from his mission of inspection. The veteran captain seemed strangely dazed, failing to react until the thane called him twice.
“What’s the word from below? How does Belicia fare on the dock?”
A closer look at Axel’s face cut off Baker’s question and confirmed that the news was bad—bad as could be.
“The bottom levels are lost,” Axel began, forcing words out with an effort that brought the veins bulging from his forehead. “The whole bottom of the Life-Tree broke loose and fell onto the docks and plaza. It’s all buried. And Belicia. By Reorx, it should have been me!” The veteran commander staggered with a groan of pure misery.
Baker caught Axel by his broad shoulders and felt that sturdy body heaving in a tide of grief. The thane searched without success for words to bring him comfort. He settled for the solace he could offer with his embrace, even as his own despair threatened to overwhelm him.
“What happened?” Baker asked, utterly drained, but knowing the answer might well be important—if anything could ever be important again.
The question seemed to bring Axel back to some measure of awareness. “No one knows. My lord, there were no survivors. The First and Second levels were cut off, buried under a million tons of rock. The Third is full of corpses or worse. They’re all dead. The Lift can’t go lower than Level Four. I did the last descent by one stairway that hasn’t yet caved in.”
Baker tried to absorb the loss. Axel’s daughter, their beautiful city, perhaps even his son were all gone.
For the first time he took note of the forty or fifty dwarves who had accompanied Axel in the lift. Some of them bore fine weapons. A few carried only big sticks, but it was clear that all were ready to do battle for their realm. They stood around waiting, looking at the wreckage that marked every one of the four avenues leading away from the lift station.
Baker spotted several apprentices from the palace library. They were young dwarves, and now they held swords and knives in hands that had been trained to use writing utensils.
“You dwarves,” he said quickly. “Do you have quill and parchment?”
“Aye, lord thane. We all have our writing tools.”
“I want you all to take down the names of every dwarf here,” Baker said. “And find the others, the groups of Hylar that are scattered all around this level. From now on I want a record—a written record—of everyone who fights against these shade creatures.”
The young scholars quickly obeyed. Meanwhile, Axel found several veteran warriors among the throng of Hylar and appointed them sergeants. In a short time they had sorted the volunteers into a semblance of units, their number growing as more of the scattered patrols returned to the lift and added their number to the group.
Still the Hylar were disorganized and unprepared for the shock of a fresh attack when Baker heard the unmistakable cries of battle-ready Klar. The sound rose like a roar and rumbled through the whole city quarter. Within seconds, bands of frenzied attackers swept down two of the wide streets and rushed toward the lift station. Spittle flying from their grinning lips, they thundered closer with whoops and shouts of insane glee.
“Back, my lord!” cried Capper Whetstone, taking the thane’s arm with a powerful grip. “Into the lift!”
“Wait!” snapped Baker, his voice sharp enough to pierce the din. His mind whirled. The lift was too small to hold more than a fraction of the Hylar gathered at the station.
Before he could issue further orders, the warriors of the two clans clashed in a barrage of blows. Many Klar tumbled away or writhed on the ground, halted by the stout Hylar defense. But many more frantic attackers pushed through the melee, desperate to stab, to kill. Baker held his little sword ready, standing just behind the dwarves in the front line. A Hylar fell, gouged deeply in the leg, and a leering Klar rushed through the gap to charge the thane. Baker cut down the wild-eyed berserker, surprised at the satisfaction he found in the bone-crushing swing of his weapon. He stepped forward, bashing at another opponent, then tumbled to the floor as something sharp and hot smashed him in the face.
He heard the fight raging all around and feared that he had been blinded—a dread that suddenly struck him as far worse than death. He clasped a hand to his face, wiping away blood and the broken pieces of his spectacles.
And he could see light! Wiping again, he discovered that he could see, though his vision was clouded by the blood that spilled into his eyes. He stood, trying to shake off a feeling of utter helplessness. Squinting, he realized that the Hylar had formed a protective ring around him as more Klar poured around corners to join the fray.
“Axel!” Baker cried urgently. “Come here! I need your eyes!”
“My lord, I can do nothing. May Reorx strike me dead as I stand—”
“Come, damn it! Tell me what you see down those streets!” Baker pointed around the lift station, into the avenues that were ominously silent. Unfortunately, anything more than a short stone’s throw away was a mere blur in his vision.
“Down that street I see a mass of those shades—two, maybe three blocks away. The other street is quiet. No sign of dwarf or darkness.”
“Up the street toward the shades—can we get away from the Klar by falling back that way?”
Axel looked around in astonishment. “For now. They’ll have that side cut off in another minute.”
“What if we were to run toward the shadows?” Quickly he outlined his daring idea.
Axel hesitated for only a fraction of a heartbeat, then his teeth flashed in a warlike grin. “Aye, my lord.” In another moment his voice was a commanding roar. “Hylar! Fall back on my point! Double time! Break!”
Instantly the defenders swept back from the attacking Klar and poured around the side of the lift station as the pursuers tangled into a mass. A few of the frenzied warriors tried to swe
ep around the flank, but Baker used his sword and began slashing at the Klar who stood out from the blur. He drove the few maddened dwarves back with cuts and stabs.
The Hylar moved in a mass, following Axel’s clumping lead without question. Soon they were running down the street, hundreds of howling Klar in pursuit.
“How far?” the thane gasped to Axel as he strained to breathe over the unfamiliar exertion of a full run.
“Two blocks,” panted the venerable captain, keeping up remarkably well despite his gout. “Now one after this lane, here.”
Baker spotted the gaps of a narrow alley connecting the right and left of the avenue. Just beyond he now saw the indistinct shapes of utter darkness and knew that the Chaos shades were hungrily awaiting the onrushing dwarves.
“You head right. I’m going left,” Axel called.
The rushing Hylar reached the pair of narrow lanes that diverged from the main road. “Split up!” cried Baker, pointing to the right and left. “Half go each way!”
The retreating dwarves quickly veered off, and the Klar kept going straight ahead down the wide street. A few of the crazed attackers tried to turn into the narrow alleys, but their way was blocked by several burly Hylar. The rest of the Klar were happy to charge onward, rushing down the street with howls of bloodthirsty frenzy.
And the shadows met them in dark but exultant silence.
A Scheme and a Treaty
Chapter Seventeen
Accompanied by his assassin and a handful of warriors he had gathered from the returning boats, Darkend started up the long road that climbed toward his sister’s house. One of his escort quickly hoisted the thane’s banner, and he was startled when, as the pennant of the Smoking Forge passed, he heard hissing and jeers from behind the closed doors of several buildings. Darkend’s mission was too urgent to allow him to take time to discipline these traitors, but he took note of the addresses. He would be certain to take appropriate actions later.
Slickblade took matters into his own hand when one citizen dared to hurl a clump of rotten fungus from an upper balcony. The assassin and three Daergar warriors broke down the door to a private inn and went upstairs to grab the young dwarf. They hauled the struggling, barely bearded youth into the street where he was cast to the ground before Darkend.
“Is this the respect you show to your thane?” demanded Slickblade, drawing his short sword and prodding the fellow hard enough to draw blood. “Now wretch, beg for your life!”
“Thane!” the rebellious Daergar said, angry enough to conquer his fear. “Thane of what? My house was destroyed by Chaos. My family, gone! And now I look into a room that shows a woman’s hand, and I cannot even tell you the name of that woman!”
“Kill him,” snapped Darkend, moving on as the assassin carried out his order with a quick stabbing movement.
He stalked onward with regal dignity but was far more concerned than he dared show. How quickly they had turned against him! Now every doorway seemed to offer an ambush, and each shuttered window concealed conspirators and rebels.
And what was the nature of this new supernatural enemy? How could they steal thoughts and memories, affect the very minds of the survivors? They attacked and destroyed on a level that was almost impossible to comprehend!
The thane’s party passed the Second Level and moved steadily higher, toward the twin towers of House Bellowsmoke. One of the thane’s bodyguards uttered a sharp gasp and fell forward, the steel dart of a crossbow missile jutting from his back. Others in the band immediately closed around the thane. There was no one who doubted that the arrow had been intended for Darkend himself.
Slickblade led a half dozen warriors off the road, climbing through steep alleys and lanes, searching for the would-be culprit while the rest of the party hastened onward. Soon Darkend heard shouts and a brief clatter of weapons. Shortly afterward, the men-at-arms brought a battered Daergar and cast him to the paving stones before the thane. This one, too, would not grovel or beg. Instead he spit a stream of bloody saliva that very nearly touched Darkend’s boot.
“Kill this one, too,” ordered the thane. “But make it slow, very painful.”
A thrust by Slickblade’s silver blade brought forth a long, lingering scream. That mournful wail trailed off into slow gurgling as Darkend and his henchman once more started climbing.
“A deep, twisting belly stab,” Slickblade explained smugly. “Inevitably fatal, but terribly slow to finish the job. It will be a good lesson for anyone else who’s contemplating another act of insolence.”
“Are you sure you got the right dwarf?” asked the thane.
“Not at all,” the assassin replied calmly. “But the same purpose is served in any event, don’t you agree?”
“Indeed.”
For just a moment the thane paused to look over the Urkhan Sea. From here he could see for miles. Explosive lights burst through the darkness in many places. Columns of steam rose from the water, hissing and boiling into the air. Fires still raged on Hybardin, and several of the meteoric dragons, trailing their clouds of smoke and sparks behind them, circled in the air a long way off.
Darkend banged on his sister’s entry drum, the sound of his mailed fist pounding through the pillar of stone and echoing in the solid bedrock beneath. Within moments the bridge dropped, and the portal was opened by a servant, who bowed deeply and skipped out of the way as the thane stalked over the drawbridge into the manor’s courtyard.
“My brother, what an unexpected pleasure,” said Garimeth, emerging from her own dressing chambers. She was wearing a gown of Hylar design, shimmering silver foil embroidered with large diamonds. The gems winked and glittered almost as brightly as her eyes as she took in Darkend’s scowl. Oddly, the thane noted, she was also wearing a helmet of bronze, an affectation of fashion that the thane decided he didn’t care for. With a polite curtsy his sister waited for him to speak.
“Unexpected, to be sure. As for pleasure, we’ll see what you say in a few minutes.”
“It is always a pleasure to be in your presence and to hear your wishes, Brother.”
“It is my wish that emissaries from the other thanes be shown directly to me, not imprisoned in the houses of my relatives. It is my wish that those who bring me important news are not impeded in the performance of those tasks.”
If she was shocked by his knowledge, Garimeth was shrewd enough to give no sign. Instead she frowned slightly, the delicate and feminine pout that had been in her arsenal of expressions since girlhood.
“My dear Brother, I had every intention of arranging a meeting between you and my only son. Unfortunately events have conspired against me. This affliction of Chaos has struck my own house. Surely you noticed the debris in the courtyard, the wreckage of stone, the grieving of the servants?”
In fact, Darkend had been studying his sister too intently to pay attention to his surroundings. She had a point, but he would not be distracted.
“I understand that this emissary—your half-breed son!—could have provided us with warning of this threat, the very Chaos that you claim so afflicts you. Yet he was drugged and held here until it is too late. Why?”
Garimeth’s eyes narrowed, and Darkend knew she was trying to decide how he could have gotten such detailed information. No other sign of discomfort disturbed her graceful features as she replied.
“Tarn was worn and shaken by the journey. I merely gave him something to help him sleep. Apparently he was confused when he awakened and fled away from here before I could give him an explanation. Indeed, my lord and Brother, if my actions have in any way caused you difficulty, I extend my most humble apologies.”
“You may extend your neck under my executioner’s blade, and that will still not recompense for the harm that has been done,” declared Darkend.
He thought about telling her the rest of what he knew, that Tarn had been a prisoner here for several days, that his drugging had nothing to do with the rigors of the trip from Hybardin to Daerforge. But for now he decide
d to hold his tongue. After all, there might be future need for his spy in this house, and it would not do to endanger his sources of information.
“Tell me this: where is Tarn Bellowgranite now?”
“He departed abruptly,” Garimeth said smoothly, impressing Darkend with the ease of her dissembling—no admission that he had been a prisoner or that he had escaped! “I believe he intended to seek you, though no doubt he expected to find you at the Life-Tree. In fact, it was this agent here who summoned him and told him to await your pleasure.” She pointed at Slickblade.
“She lies, Sire!” cried the assassin, his eyes widening behind the slit of his robe.
“Why do you deny this?” asked Garimeth smoothly, blinking in what Darkend took to be a reasonable façade of surprise. “Could it be that you—? But no, I don’t understand!”
“There is no truth in her words! I did not come for the half-breed. Why would I?” Slickblade’s tone was shocked, his manner grim.
“Indeed, why would Slickblade do such a thing?” asked the thane.
“Who knows?” Garimeth shrugged. “Perhaps he wanted to make you believe that I was betraying you.”
“Lies! Let me kill her now, my lord,” said Slickblade, his voice dropping to a soft and deadly hiss.
Darkend seriously considered the request, then shook his head. “No. There is more here than I know, and I will have some answers. Do not kill her. Not yet, anyway.”
“Of course I am worried about my son, too. Where did you take him?” Garimeth asked Slickblade innocently.
“What?” The assassin’s rage exploded. “I beg you, Sire. Please let me put the blade to her! Or to her bastard son!”
“Perhaps you have an idea,” Darkend replied dryly. “In light of the recent, unforeseen events, he is probably no longer useful to me. Yet if I could find him, he could still serve one purpose admirably.”
He turned to Slickblade, who had moved to glower from the shadows near the door. “You must find the half-breed and kill him. When you are done, I command you to bring his head here, so that his mother may admire his likeness for as long as she desires. His head will serve as a reminder of the price of treachery against Darkend Bellowsmoke.”
