Friendly Fire

by Dale Lucas

  “This is my redemption, brother dwarf,” the stonemason said. “I’ll not let you down.”

  As Rem got into position on the Kothrum’s right, he saw Bjalki edging closer to Valaric, as if to stand beside him.

  “What are you doing?” the stonemason asked the dwarven priest.

  “Let me try,” Bjalki said, pointing to the advancing Kothrum. “I have to try.”

  The Kothrum closed.

  Torval had withdrawn to about thirty feet directly behind the beast.

  Opposite Rem, on the Kothrum’s left, Queydon paced the beast, stalking sideways, waiting for her turn to distract it.

  Rem lingered on its right, waiting for some sign that he should intervene.

  The Kothrum lumbered forward, slow and patient. Directly before it, Valaric and Bjalki stood their ground. As the distance between them closed, Bjalki suddenly rushed forward, right into the Kothrum’s path. The dwarven priest held up his arms and addressed the thing directly.

  “Stop,” he said. “As your summoner, I command you! Stop!”

  The Kothrum swept Bjalki aside, a dismissive gesture that—despite its apparent carelessness—still sent Bjalki rolling with terrific force. Then, to Rem’s great surprise, the ever-patient Kothrum charged.

  For something so bulky and unwieldy, it moved fast. One moment it stalked—the next it leapt forward, taking three long, bounding strides in succession toward the startled Valaric. For a moment—a terrifying instant—Rem thought that the stonemason had frozen, his shock at Bjalki’s fall and the Kothrum’s charge too sudden to overcome. Then the stonemason dove aside, scrambling for safety on all fours as the Kothrum tried to arrest its headlong rush and redirect.

  Across the street the watchwardens and stonemason prisoners directly in the Kothrum’s hurtling path scattered. The thing barreled forward and smashed into the horse cart that had—only moments before—held almost a dozen of the prisoners. The cart crumpled under the weight of the impact, and the horse tied to it bucked in its traces. Half-buried in the broken running board of the cart and yanked sideways by the bolting horse that could go nowhere with such a heavy burden now holding it in place, the Kothrum struggled to disentangle itself.

  Torval saw his chance and took off at a sprint, strong, short legs pumping hard. He launched himself into the air just shy of the creature. Rem watched, awestruck and terrified, as his partner rose on the air and slammed hard into the Kothrum’s hunched and bone-studded back. Because the thing was so knotty—so covered in arching ribs and protuberant shinbones and fanning pelvises—Torval found purchase quickly and easily. As the Kothrum tore itself out of the cart, Torval held fast.

  Free of the cart, the Kothrum was suddenly aware that something was atop it, overbalancing it. It began a strange, whirling dance, arms bent awkwardly, trying to reach the hanger-on now riding its hunched shoulders. As one arm curled round, bony fingers sweeping dangerously close to Torval’s huddled form, Rem realized it was his turn. He ran right up to the beast, shouting and calling, then swung his sword into its exposed flanks. A few chips of bone sprang forth, and some clods of earth fell away. The Kothrum turned on him, towering and grim, burning eyes livid in the wintry night.

  Rem beat a hasty retreat, reeling backward as quickly as his feet would take him. Something snagged his heel and down he went. He hit the mud hard, on his back, and the Kothrum loomed above him. For a moment he thought he was done for, and he cursed his stupidity and uselessness.

  Then Valaric sped into Rem’s vision from behind the Kothrum. “Here!” the stonemason cried. “Here! I’m the one you want!”

  The Kothrum’s head jerked upright. Mechanically it strode toward Valaric.

  Rem trailed after it, watching Torval as he went. His partner had climbed up onto the beast’s shoulders now and was crouching there, in danger of toppling off at any moment. Fierce and sure, Torval raised the rock hammer in his hand and brought the sharp little pick down, its point cracking right through a scalloped formation of shoulder blades near his feet. Torval gave the couched pickax a yank to make sure it had gone deep and held fast. Satisfied, he rose up a little on his perch, using the embedded rock hammer as a sort of handgrip to keep him steady.

  Valaric gave the Kothrum a wide berth now, leading it in a broad circle, back toward the center of the street, away from the cordon of watchwardens and stonemasons. Queydon slipped in from behind him, preparing to offer distraction if the beast charged or made a sudden play for its quarry again. Bjalki lingered on the periphery of the strange, clumsy dance, as though eager to join but not sure how.

  Rem, still trailing the beast, turned his attentions back to Torval. His partner had drawn his other rock hammer out now and brought it smashing down on the half-shattered skull topping the creature’s crown. With the pick buried in the skull cap, Torval began to tug, trying desperately to lever the bony carapace off the creature’s too-small head. Once more the Kothrum seemed to become aware of something troubling it, despite the fact that a potential target lay dead ahead. Its forward motion slowed. Confused, the beast turned a little, pivoting back and forth. Its arms rose to reach for the unwanted passenger on its shoulders.

  Rem was about to close when Queydon charged. In a series of deft movements that made her little more than a blur, the elf struck at the Kothrum with her elegant curving scimitar—first a strike on its right; a spin, then a thrust at its chest; ducking, finally, then whirling once more, capping off her attack with a trio of hard, fast blows to the Kothrum’s left hip.

  The Kothrum edged toward her, more aware of her attack now than of Torval’s labors atop it.

  Rem stared, amazed. It was working!

  Queydon kept at it, dancing in a circle around the thing, striking, drawing sparks when her steel nicked stone embedded in the grave earth that the thing was molded from, easily evading its clumsy grasping and ham-fisted retaliations. Valaric, meanwhile, stayed right in the thing’s line of sight, drawing it slowly, surely, toward him.

  Rem slid left, intending to come around from behind the thing, opposite Queydon and Valaric, ready to attack if a distraction was needed. Valaric, meanwhile, moved in the opposite direction. Up on the Kothrum’s shoulders, Torval brought the pick down again and again, still trying to break through the bone and tightly packed stone that made up its head.

  “Careful,” Bjalki said, lingering nearby. “It’s not smart, but it’s cunning. It—”

  Without warning the Kothrum summoned one of its shocking surges of speed. With uncanny swiftness the thing stretched out one hand and swatted the dancing Queydon like a fly, almost as if it had anticipated where she would be in the next instant. The elf collided with its swiping hand, arced through the air, then hit the dirt with a grunt.

  Rem charged toward her. “Queydon!” he shouted, hoping, praying that he would see her stir and rise in the next instant.

  The thing’s sudden movement almost threw Torval off its shoulder. At the last instant, the dwarf managed to arrest his near fall by planting the point of the pick he’d been using in the Kothrum’s left shoulder. For a moment Rem watched as his partner literally hung off the beast, a climber clinging to a moving mountain, only his rock hammer’s sharp point standing between him and the Kothrum’s heavy, stomping feet. Satisfied that Torval was safe, at least for the next few breaths, Rem hurried to Queydon’s side and dragged the still-dazed elf away from the chaotic action. Just as she waved him off, assuring him that she was sound and ready to rejoin the fight, sudden movement drew Rem’s gaze.

  The Kothrum was aware of Torval. It reached for him, ready to tear him free.

  “Here!” Valaric cried, waving his arms. “Forget him! I’m your prey! Have at me!”

  The Kothrum froze, as if the twin targets—the dwarf that hung from it and the man it had been summoned to kill—scrambled its primitive instincts. After only a moment’s hesitation, it lurched toward Valaric.

  Rem studied Queydon. She had suffered a few superficial cuts in the fall, but otherwise
seemed unruffled. Her large honey-colored eyes displayed no hint of worry or need. She blinked at him.

  “What are you waiting for?” she said calmly. “Help him.”

  “Right,” Rem said, and rushed off to distract the monster.

  Torval had regained his perch on the Kothrum’s shoulder. He kept one hand on the planted pick, eager not to fall again. With his free hand Torval reached out for the first rock hammer, still stuck in the Kothrum’s right shoulder, its handle pointing skyward. With a yank he dislodged the little pickax, then brought it crashing down onto the beast’s crown, trying to break through its stone pate and expose the magic gem at its center.

  “Come on!” Valaric cried, taunting it. “I’m right here! Catch me!”

  The Kothrum lumbered toward him.

  Rem paced the beast again. As he watched, Torval brought his pick down, hammering again and again through the Kothrum’s smooth, boulder-like skull. Suddenly, a giant shard of the stone sheared away and went flying. Rem almost cheered—until he saw what happened next.

  That shard whirled through the air and hit Valaric right in the forehead. With a startled groan the stonemason reeled backward, blood sheeting down his face. He was stunned, blind, reeling …

  Rem was about to rush in, to yank the stonemason out of harm’s way, when Bjalki broke into Rem’s field of vision in a mad sprint toward Valaric. He reached the stonemason just a moment before the Kothrum did, tackling him hard, and the two went rolling. Rem closed on them, ready to attack the thing and draw it off—

  But it was too late. The Kothrum bent, reaching out with its enormous, inhuman hands, ready to close them around Valaric’s now-bleeding skull and crush it.

  “Stop!” Bjalki shouted into the Kothrum’s featureless face, rising on swaying legs to place himself between the beast and its prey.

  The creature swept Bjalki aside carelessly and reached again for Valaric. Bjalki, undeterred, leapt onto the beast’s reaching arm and held fast, like a man lost at sea clinging to a broken, wave-tossed mast.

  “Stop,” he pleaded, trying to pull the creature’s arm aside. Rem saw that the priest really was begging now, tears streaming down his face. “Stop this! I don’t want this … I never wanted this.”

  Atop the Kothrum, Torval had uncovered something. A sickly-green glow emanated from the Kothrum’s cracked-open skull. Unfortunately, whatever glowed did not want to dislodge. Torval hacked at it with his pick, sending stone chips flying every which way.

  Rem reached the fallen Valaric, snatched handfuls of his tunic, and yanked him clear. For the moment, at least, the stonemason was out of the Kothrum’s reach … but poor Bjalki still held to its arm, pulling, sobbing, begging it to stop and leave the fallen mason be.

  Perhaps the beast was incapable of emotion, but suddenly it seemed to lose its patience. With a strange, stony snarl, the Kothrum scooped up Bjalki and shifted his wriggling body into its grip. Both of its large, bony hands held the struggling dwarven priest. It studied him for a moment, Bjalki’s legs pinwheeling above the ground, his fists still beating at the creature that he himself had given life to.

  “Torval, hurry!” Rem shouted.

  Valaric struggled to his feet again, wiping blood from his eyes. When he saw Bjalki in the Kothrum’s iron grip, he lunged. Rem had to grab him to hold him back.

  “No!” the stonemason shouted.

  The Kothrum held Bjalki in both hands, like a strong man studying a baby for the first time—puzzled, cautious.

  “Take me if you must,” Bjalki said, breathless. “Just, please, stop—”

  The Kothrum squeezed. Bjalki made a strange rasping sound and spat up a terrible gout of blood as his internal organs collapsed. With a convulsive jerk, the last life left the dwarven priest’s body and he fell limp, a doll in the arms of his killer, every bone from his lower ribs to his pelvis shattered.

  Rem felt as though something in him had been crushed, as though he could not breathe. The Kothrum dropped Bjalki and turned its burning eyes toward Valaric. On it came.

  “Move,” Rem said to the stonemason. As Valaric stumbled away, Rem broke right, trying to hook around behind the Kothrum. Before he’d traveled far to its periphery, he lunged and laid into the vile thing with his sword. His blade sent bone chips and clods of earth flying. The Kothrum turned toward Rem, his presence a distraction, an afterthought. It seemed to pause for an instant, hesitant, as if it couldn’t decide which it should pursue—its true target, ahead, or this attacker, close on its flank. Finally it decided to swat at Rem.

  He ducked the backhanded swipe—lucky, really, as it came so quickly—then scurried away, putting a safe distance between himself and the creature. He looked for Valaric.

  The stonemason circled toward the beast on its opposite side. He moved slowly, regaining his senses, blood still flowing from the cut in his forehead—but he was also actively trying to engage the beast.

  “You missed me again!” he cried. “You’d kill your own master and still leave your target upright? Come on, you bloody bastard! Come and get me!”

  The Kothrum made straight for him.

  Torval brought his pick down. Rem saw something fly free from where Torval struck. For a moment he thought it was another shard of stone, but almost instantly he realized it was no such thing at all. Against the black night sky, the tumbling, arcing object glowed with a noxious, otherworldly light, a black gem with green fire burning within.

  The runestone!

  It rose, rose, then started its descent, describing a steep arc. Rem sped toward where it was about to come down, just a few feet behind the Kothrum itself.

  The Kothrum reached for Valaric, who slid sideways, trying to turn the thing around in a broad circle. Just as the gem hit the mud, Rem did as well, sliding forward with his arm outstretched. He’d thrown his sword aside. All that mattered was the gem now.

  Valaric’s gambit worked. The Kothrum turned. Unfortunately, it was turning right toward Rem.

  Rem slid to a stop, his hand just inches from the gem. He drew himself up and leapt forward, pouncing on the glowing stone and pulling it toward himself. The Kothrum was directly in front of him now, lumbering forward, looming tall in his vision.

  Gods, this is it! Rem thought. It’s over now!

  Then something leapt through the air, right over Rem’s prone form. It was Valaric. He was literally bounding into the Kothrum’s embrace. He hit the beast with stunning force, like a child leaping into the arms of a father he hadn’t seen in ages. For its part, the Kothrum accepted Valaric’s strange embrace, though it seemed to hesitate for a moment—as though it knew only how to chase things that ran away, not sure of what to do if they came willingly into its arms.

  Rem stared, amazed.

  “The hammer, lad!” Torval shouted from atop the Kothrum. “Smash it!”

  Rem searched his surroundings for the great dwarven hammer. There it lay, a few yards from him. He scrambled toward it and almost landed on his face, but somehow managed to right himself. Arriving at the spot where the weapon lay, he tossed down the gem and snatched up the hammer. It was heavy, even for a human wielder.

  Rem brought the hammer down on the gem. It cracked, but did not shatter. The unearthly glow still pulsed inside it.

  “Rem, hurry!” Torval shouted again.

  Rem chanced a look back at Valaric, still held aloft by the Kothrum. Torval beat at it with his rock hammers, trying to get it to release the stonemason. Valaric was still alive, eyes glinting between the Kothrum’s bony fingers. He didn’t struggle at all.

  Queydon’s voice split Rem’s thoughts. Now! she commanded.

  Rem raised the hammer again and brought it crashing down. This time he heard the gem shatter, saw tiny black-green shards go flying out from under the hammer along with a strange, sudden waft of green smoke.

  He turned to the Kothrum just in time to see its last act: crushing Valaric’s skull between its huge, shovel-like hands. An instant later the earth and bones collapsed, as thou
gh whatever held them together had evaporated in a single breath. Torval fell upon the heap. Valaric’s corpse crumpled to the mud.

  Rem studied the tableau before him: Torval, sitting upright and regaining his senses; Valaric’s corpse, skull crushed and mangled; Bjalki, tossed aside, a twisted rag doll with no stuffing at its center, a widening pool of blood steaming on the cold mud around him; Queydon, approaching slowly, studying the horrible scene with her sad, ageless gaze. Rem knew it should feel like victory, but, gods help him, he couldn’t summon anything like exultation. Instead he found himself suddenly weeping, totally unable to stop.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  In the end the only way to settle it all—restitution for damages, inquiries into the large numbers of dead, an after-the-fact investigation that attempted to piece together what was known and what could be settled regarding the Sons of Edath and their short, bloody feud with the Swords of Eld—was that time-honored default of solicitors and litigants everywhere: mediation. All parties gathered in one of the many great tribunal chambers high on Founder’s Hill, above the First Ward, and spent interminable days in uncomfortable chairs around overly large tables, under the watchful eyes of city judges, an army of notaries, and Black Mal, the ardent chief magistrate.

  Torval was subjected to the circus for far longer than Rem, for he had spilt blood in the execution of his fatherly duties. Throughout, Rem remained in the chamber, having convinced the administrators that he was his partner’s special counsel. When he heard the story of what Torval had endured at the dwarven citadel, delivered with clinical bluntness in excruciating, cross-examined detail, Rem nearly broke the solemnity of the proceedings by crossing the chamber to give his partner a great hug. He resisted the urge, though, knowing that it would be frowned upon by all present—Torval most of all. After tense days of deliberation, during which Torval was barred from active duty, the grand jury finally determined that Torval would not be held liable for the slaying of Eldgrim Sastrummsson, the late ethnarch, since ample evidence—a great deal of it from the Swords of Eld themselves—proved that the ethnarch’s death was wholly a matter of self-defense. Torval was summarily dismissed to resume his duties, and the two partners left the Halls of Justice to carry on with their lives.