by Dale Lucas
To Bjalki’s surprise—and, no doubt, that of the intruders’ leader—the knifeman said nothing. He only tilted his head slightly to the left, as though truly puzzled by his leader’s reaction. Then, almost as a provocation, he turned to Therba’s heaped, unmoving form, crouched beside her, and turned her over onto her back.
Bjalki made a weak, beastly sound when Therba groaned and stirred where she lay. She was dying, but she wasn’t dead yet. “No,” he said, truly ready to throw himself on his knees and beg for the docent’s life.
He heard a single word from the leader as well. “Stop,” the man said.
The knifeman did not listen. He stared into Therba’s clouding old eyes, then slid his knife in one last time. This time he made sure the blade struck at a sharp angle, up beneath the ribs, seeking the old dwarf priestess’s slowing heart. Therba gave a tiny gasp, then went still.
Bjalki threw himself forward, screaming—though the sounds he made seemed to have no words in them, only pain and fear and hatred and rage. This time his captors weren’t ready for the force of his resistance. He burst away from them and shot forward, right toward the docent’s still body. A massive form suddenly filled his world—the leader of the masked men, stepping right into his path. Bjalki plunged right into the man’s open arms and found himself held fast in a strong, viselike bear hug, forced back toward the steps and the dais. Once they’d reached the low summit, the leader threw Bjalki down and towered over him. The two men who’d been holding Bjalki just moments ago had retreated to the wings of the dais now, not sure what their leader intended.
To Bjalki’s astonishment, the leader only asked him a single question. “Is there a back way out?”
Bjalki could not answer. He could only stare at Therba—the kind, the upright, the wise … now stone-cold dead, bleeding all over the temple’s flagstones.
The leader kicked Bjalki in the ribs. “Is there a back way out?” he hissed, and Bjalki suddenly realized that the man was trying to speak to him without being heard by the others.
“Hold that one,” the knifeman said from farther up the aisle. Three men rushed forward to mount the dais. One of the men who’d been holding Bjalki closed in as well.
Bjalki was terrified. What was happening? He couldn’t leave her, could he? Why was this man asking about a back exit?
The masked leader now lifted Bjalki by his robes and set him on his feet, then shoved him hard.
“Run,” he said.
Bjalki could not think straight any longer. That simple word—run—was all that he needed to hear. The animal part of his brain took over and he turned to run. One of his former captors lumbered closer, but he had the barest of head starts on him. Stumbling, Bjalki scrambled toward the altar, caught himself upon it, to steady himself, then broke into a run once more. Glancing back, Bjalki could see his pursuing captor closing, right behind him, reaching out, ready to snatch his trailing robe—
Then the leader intervened. He fell on Bjalki’s pursuer, yanked him backward, and threw him to the floor of the dais. Then the masked stranger turned to Bjalki and roared his single order again.
“Run!”
Bjalki fled as fast as his feet would carry him, heading toward the back corridors of the temple and the only other way out that he could think of.
As he flew he heard the clamor of their voices behind him.
“Are you mad? You let him go?”
“What were you thinking?
“Aemon’s tears, there’s blood everywhere!”
“Do what we came to do!” the leader shouted above the rising din of his chaotic, excited companions. “Work fast, we’ve only minutes!”
As Bjalki ducked into the lower passages far behind the altar that would lead him to the rear door of the temple, he heard a great clatter and cacophony behind him. The men seemed to be upending everything, tearing it all down, tossing every ark and bench and scroll.
It sounded like his whole world coming to a brutal and sudden end.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Torval’s home smelled like a country kitchen, and a mouthwatering one at that. Clearly the family had been working all day to get the Fhryst meal prepared. The fruit of their collective labor was laid out on the short trestle table that their family kept for dining, and the moment Rem stepped through the door, his eyes danced eagerly over the offerings. There was fresh-baked barley bread, salted fish, a pot of mutton stew, part of a wheel of cheese, a pitcher of milk for the children, a larger pitcher—of beer or cider, Rem could not tell which—for the grown-ups, hearth-roasted carrots, onions, and parsnips, a crock of fresh soft butter, and a bowl of dried apple shavings, which, Rem had learned, were a common dwarven table condiment, Torval’s people often using those dried, wrinkled old apple pieces to flavor everything from stews to porridge to the butter on their bread. A warm fire licked at a new beech log beyond the hearth, and flickering candles lined the dinner table.
Lokki charged, and Rem bent down so Lokki could leap onto him. In seconds the boy clung to his shoulders like a peddler’s pack, nearly strangling Rem with his strong little arms round Rem’s throat. Rem knew the drill well; Torval’s youngest loved his visits and took great delight in wrestling with him, bodily, until he could force Rem to the floor, climb atop him, and declare the challenged giant slain. Ammi would try to scold and dissuade little Lokki, but it never worked. Truth be told, Rem loved it. He liked the familiarity, the fun, the playfulness. Gods knew he got little enough of that in his daily endeavors.
“There he is!” Lokki cried as he climbed Rem as though he were an ambulatory tree. “The giant Mokhenrog, back for more abuse at the hands of the dwarven hero Lokki, Son of Torval!”
Without warning the dwarf boy scurried higher, planting one leg over Rem’s shoulder, then wrapping his arms round Rem’s head. Suddenly Rem was blind.
“For the sake of all the gods, Lokki!” Ammi said, exasperated. “Let poor Rem go! He’s barely through the door!”
“Aye, that!” Torval barked. “He’s dainty as a daffodil, that one. One wrong move from you, little hooligan, and you’re like to crush him.”
“Your support is overwhelming,” Rem said, still unable to see. “But what if the giant had simply grown tired of always losing the battle, eh?”
“Oh no,” Lokki said, a delicious expectancy in his voice. “You can’t do that. This is the way the story goes—the dwarven hero fights Mokhenrog and cuts him down to size.”
“Well,” Rem countered, “what if I’m a different giant?”
“I say you’re Mokhenrog!” Lokki insisted.
Rem gave a roar, tore Lokki from his shoulders, and brought him carefully down to the floor with mock fury. When he laid Lokki down, he started tickling the boy, who giggled uncontrollably.
“The giant’s loose!” Lokki giggled. Rem pulled the young dwarf—barely the size of a human toddler—up off the floor and gave him a few mock-savage shakes that stirred up Lokki’s laughing fit, then brought him down again onto the floor. Rem then lifted his arms in triumph, his fists thumping rudely against the low-hanging roof of the cozy rooms.
“The giant wins the day! The hero is slain!”
“I’m the hero!” Lokki said. “I can’t be slain.”
“Tell that to the giant crunching your bones about now,” Torval said. The dwarf bent and hauled his little boy to his feet, then straightened his tunic and dusted it off. “Go help with the rest of dinner now. We’re starting soon.”
The boy did as he was told. Rem studied Torval, noticing the proud, almost melancholy look that he gave Lokki as the little one hurried to help Osma—a sort of bittersweet adoration, indicative of deep affection coupled with the sting of loss. No doubt that whenever Torval looked at the boy like that, he wasn’t just thinking about how much he loved him, but also about how much he missed the lad’s mother and two dead siblings. Staring at his friend and suddenly overcome with a great well of protective sentiment for him, Rem realized that he, too, was being watched. Indilen, th
ree steps away, studied Rem in the candle- and hearth light, her eyes bright as two dark jewels holding stars in their depths, her smile broad and bright and perfect. Catching her like that—so beautiful, gilded by the light of the candles and the fire across the room, Rem felt his breath taken. Was she really his? Had he really gotten so lucky?
There was a long, loving silence between them. Finally Rem closed on her and swept her into his arms. “How was I? As a giant?”
“Terrifying,” she said. “And thoroughly adorable.”
“Shall the giant make you his prisoner, milady?”
She leaned in close. “He already has.”
They kissed—only for a moment, because they didn’t want to be rude. In that moment Rem made a decision. As soon as they were alone again, and the moment was right, he would tell her the whole, unadulterated truth about who he was and why he’d come here. If she did not storm out of his life or beg him to reclaim his birthright at that point, then he would keep her forever, and never want for anything more.
He became aware of a new presence at his elbow. When he turned he found Tavarix lingering nearby. The boy was cleaned up nicely, wearing a good, neat tunic and trousers, not the everyday work clothes Rem had seen him in just a few days ago, in the dwarven quarter. The young dwarf smiled expectantly, then offered his hands.
“It’s good to see you, sir,” Tav said. Rem offered his own hand and Tav shook it in both of his. “You’re most welcome here, on this night. It’s our great privilege to have you.”
A pang of pride seized Rem. The boy was trying to offer heartfelt gratitude, a sense of welcome—all the things that a gracious man of the house might offer to an honored guest. Seeing Tav like that—still so young, yet so eager to be seen as gracious and mature—made Rem terribly proud of the boy.
“It’s good to see you, Tav,” Rem said. “The privilege is all mine.” Conspiratorial, Rem cocked his head toward Torval—engaged with dinner preparations across the room—and spoke to Tav in a whisper.
“Any improvements?” Rem asked.
Tav’s expression fell, his hospitable joy collapsing into sadness. “None. He’ll barely speak to me.”
Rem bent closer, to make sure Tav could see into his eyes and hear his still-whispered words. “He’s proud,” he said. “Keep at it.”
Tav nodded, forced a smile, then hurried away to help his aunt and sister complete the preparations.
Rem turned back to Indilen. “I’m glad to see him here,” he said quietly, “but sad to hear there’s still bad blood between them.”
“Don’t overstep your bounds,” Indilen said. “Torval knows you love him, and you love his family, but if you push yourself into the middle of this—”
Rem held up his hands. “I offer encouragement, nothing more,” he said.
He suddenly became aware of Torval at his elbow. “Encouragement for what?” his partner asked.
“I encourage you to not be such a belligerent little knob,” Rem said with a smile. “Thanks to me, the whole world loves you.”
Torval shook his head. “You think you’re funny. Come on, it’s time.”
Rem and Indilen both nodded in unison and moved toward the table.
A still, solemn silence fell, subduing even eager little Lokki. Torval took the seat at the head of the table, while Osma, his sister, took another chair at the opposite end. The children filled the bench on one side of the trestle table—Tav taking the place closest to Osma, farthest from Torval. Rem and Indilen sat themselves on the bench opposite. As they all settled in, Rem noticed a line of candles running down the center of the table, all in unmatched holders. Osma held a burning reed in her hand, presumably to light the waiting candles. Currently the only light in the room came from the fire in the hearth and a pair of nearly burnt-down candles in glass holders on the far side of the room.
Osma looked to Torval—a silent inquiry regarding readiness. Torval situated himself in his seat, then nodded. All of a sudden, he looked profoundly uncomfortable to Rem—a dwarf about to bear witness to some ritual or ceremony that he would rather ignore or eschew altogether. His eyes dropped to the table and his mouth was set stonily.
Osma studied everyone round the table in turn, ending with the children.
“This is the story of how everything came to be,” she said, her voice taking on the grave and evocative cadence of a born storyteller. “It’s to be recalled upon the longest night of the year, in the midst of the world’s cold and privation, to remember that from the emptiness we came, and to the emptiness we shall return.”
Rem felt a pleasant shiver run the length of his spine. He loved storytelling, and Osma’s invocation already seemed to be immersing him in another world—a world of primordial darkness and cold waste. Beside him he felt Indilen lean just a little bit closer.
Osma raised the burning reed in her plump fingers, its yellow light flashing in her large dark eyes. “When the world was young, and all was void and tempestuous, Stormblight, That of the Primordial Chaos, decreed that its servants should fill the world with teeming life, so that lonely, embittered Stormblight could savor their sufferings, their fears, their losses, and their pains.
“All manner of beasts, great and small, were formed from the stones and the sand and the waters and the winds by Stormblight’s infernal brood, and all at once, the world was not barren, but fertile and fulsome.” She reached forward and lit the candle nearest to her with the burning reed. The room became just a little brighter. As everyone stared at the newly lit candle, Osma rose from her seat. Slowly, deliberately, she moved along the trestle table behind the bench on which the children sat.
“Yet despite all the wonders now moving in the world, none of them pleased the rapacious Stormblight, for they were simple and unknowing, and their pain and fear were as fleeting as sparks, as shallow as ponds. Its efforts and impulses frustrated, Stormblight made demands once more, and the living spirits that it had planted in the very fundaments of the earth were stirred to make beings of their own—beings whose lives would be bound, but whose knowledge could be far-reaching, so that their awareness of their own mortality, their own helplessness, their lifelong suffering, and their eventual extinction, could enrich their pain and sate Stormblight’s bottomless hunger.”
Reaching between Tavarix and Lokki, Osma lit the next candle in the sequence with her still-burning reed.
“The Spirit of the Sky made dragons. They were proud and powerful, but in time Stormblight’s own scouring winter winds tore them to pieces.”
She lit the next candle, leaning between Tavarix and Ammi to do so.
“The Spirit of Wood made elves from the grass and the moss and the bark and the leaves. They were elegant, inquisitive, and supple, in love with their senses. Though they thrived for a time in ignorance, Stormblight finally beset the wending woodlings to test their mettle, and learned, in time, that it could torture them with longevity, and keen senses, and even keener knowing—for their depth and their wisdom were both their boon and their curse.”
Rem suddenly felt Indilen’s hand on his arm. He laid his own hand upon hers and took comfort in the warmth of it, but he never took his eyes from Osma. All this time he’d been supping at the woman’s table, complimenting her cooking and her unwavering care for both her brother and his children, but he had never realized that she was also such a gifted storyteller—as charismatic and compelling as any bard from the north country that he’d ever seen.
“Then the Spirit of the River made humankind from its reeds and its clay.”
And so, Rem thought. We enter the tale …
Osma lit the second-to-last candle on the table.
“Humankind, both weaker and less wise than the elves, were nonetheless more numerous and more fecund. In no time at all, Stormblight had learned the secret to humankind’s pain: to shorten their years, to haunt them with promise, and to tempt them with power. Stormblight saw these flaws and exploited them, and took great delight in the cries and laments raised and t
he delicious suffering meted out upon these, the children of his children.”
She rounded the end of the table, moving behind Torval and arriving at last just behind Rem and Indilen.
“Finally,” she continued, “Stormblight said, ‘I have conquered these pitiful souls and hold them in my power evermore. Give me another, my children! Give me yet more progeny to lord over and feast upon! For pain is my meat and mead, and I shan’t be satisfied until I’ve gorged upon it!’”
Lokki was leaning close to Tavarix now, clutching at his big brother’s arm. After a moment’s pause, Osma carried on.
“And so the Spirit of the Earth, having long tired of Stormblight’s rages and tyrannies, found the finest stones it could in the very bowels of the earth, and from these carved the first dwarves.” She leaned forward, just past Indilen, and lit the final candle on the table, the one nearest Torval. “There was Leinar, the All-Father and first of our kind; Thendril the Womb of the World; Athura the Sower; Yangrol the Smith; Wengrol the Warrior; and Kondela the Speaker and, ever thereafter, the Judge of All. In its stony bosom did the Spirit of the Earth succor and wean these first of our kind, knowing that only patient formation and robust design could fortify them against Stormblight’s depredations.”
Rem stole a glance at Torval. His partner stood straight backed, utterly still, hands flat on the table before him. His eyes glinted in the near darkness. Clearly, for Torval, Osma’s tale conjured bitter memories and unpleasant associations.
Osma continued. “When the dwarves were, at last, so plentiful that Stormblight’s attentions could be avoided no longer, the Spirit of the Earth set them loose, and bade Stormblight do its worst to hinder and hamper them. And who knows what happened then?”
“They beat Stormblight bloody!” Lokki cried.
“They tore Stormblight limb from limb,” Tavarix said solemnly.
“Stormblight found them strong and resilient,” Ammi said, “and it punished them for their resilience.”
Rem studied Torval again. He could see all the warring emotions at work in the dwarf’s heart, subtly registering on his face, even as Torval tried to suppress them. Pride, loss, love, grief, warm memories, and bitter regrets—clearly Osma’s tale, the special, ritual magic of such a gathering, stirred up a great deal in Torval’s normally stout heart.
