Chapter Seventeen: Things to Leave BehindA Chapter by JakeChapter Seventeen: Things
To Leave Behind Huntress Camp Telara’s Command Tent Sunrise, Next Day “I cannot believe
what I am hearing,” Telara exclaimed after Edessa finished recounting her
travels. Her daughter sat across from her on one of the hide chairs; Telara
remained behind her improvised table, poring over her map even as Edessa spoke.
All around them, Edessa could hear the bustle of the early morning meal, but
neither of them quite felt like leaving just yet. The younger Huntress shifted
uncomfortably as she talked; after all, her mother had an otherworldly quality
about her that perturbed many people. “You corroborate what he says, supporting
him, even?” Such a thing, in her mind, was not even remotely possible. Her
daughter was much wiser than this. Edessa’s face, formerly uncertain, was now such
that even Issavea might have gotten chills. “He never lied to you, Mother,”
Edessa said, her voice low, soft, and even. This belied the rage that she could
feel boiling over inside her. “Which is more than I would have done in his
place. He came to his enemy, willing to submit his weapons in the face of
death. Even after you tried to kill him, he still refused to raise a hand
against you. Again, I would have been more disposed to lay you out on the
floor.” Telara’s eyes narrowed, but she betrayed no other sign of anger. “Have a care how you choose to speak
to me,” she cautioned. “You may have survived on your own, but you are still my
daughter. You have yet to take a part in the rites, and as such you must submit
to my authority.” “Submission does not equate to blind
obedience,” Edessa countered her mother. “I honored our people’s code in
everything I did, and yet you question my judgment in his integrity? Where and
when, exactly, have I given you reason to do such a thing?” “You gave me reason when you threw
your lot in with him,” Telara replied, her controlled veneer dropping in an
explosion of rage. “He is just like Arden. Oh, you would not remember him. But
this one…I can see much of his great-grandfather in him. Cold, proud, assured
of his own strength, and unwilling to seek the help of others when he needs
it.” Edessa laughed quietly. “You may be
one of the best Huntresses to ever serve, Mother, but you know very little of
him if you believe such a thing. Then again, you always have poorly judged others’
character. Perhaps he is assured of his own strength. But then, he has had to
rely on it for so long he sees no other way to solve problems. He is not proud
of what he is; he hid his identity from us for a long time, and when he told
us, he was reluctant to do even that. He knows that he is not the greatest
there is, but he strives every hour to be better than he is now.” Edessa got to
her feet from the rough-hewn chair and began pacing, her fingers tracing the
way along the double-scabbarded knives at her hip. Having her hunting knives
back felt good and right; they, of all her companions, had been one of the most
dearly missed. “Do
you want to know why I followed him?” Edessa asked, drawing one of them and
setting her sharpening steel to its blade. “I followed because I could learn
something. And I did. I learned that you can let go of the things your family
holds dear. Their fights do not have to be yours, and neither do their
prejudices and natural inclinations. I learned that you can let go of your
heritage; and that is what we both did in the wild. You want to know why I
trusted him? Because he was willing to trust me first. He did the same with
you, and he learned that trust ill-founded.” “Is it?” Telara challenged. How dare
her daughter side with her clear and present enemy over her own kin! “Look at
it from my perspective. Remember his cousin?” Edessa nodded slowly. “I do,” Edessa murmured. “I remember
a scared but stubborn dwarf who knew not how to say, ‘I surrender.’ But ask
yourself this, Mother: was he that way before, or did you make him so? And,
once you know that answer, ask whether or not you want to make the same mistake
with Carsten.” She shook her head. “Why did I even start this? I know it never
helps to say these things…” She let the conversation hang there for several
moments before she walked out of the tent, her eyes filling with tears. She had
not wanted to fight with her mother; then again, she never did. Still, Edessa
could not shake the feeling that the time had come for her to do something
else. Maybe, she thought, with a shred of fear, to be something else. Haven
Eastern
flank of the village Carsten stood at the edge of the
crater, not quite sure what to do. A phoenix, even weakened, could easily
scorch the flesh off a man’s bones with only the slightest effort. And, though
his might not be the prettiest skin one could lay eyes on, he was rather
partial to it. Arcaena joined him at the crater-side, her breath momentarily
stolen by the sight before her. “Is that a…” she began, not quite
willing to finish the sentence. “Great phoenix,” Carsten supplied.
“And yes, I think so.” The animal looked up, cocking its head at that odd angle
again. Great
is a statement of size, not appearance, you clod, Carsten swore he could
hear it say. I feel anything but great
right now. If you would not mind, I could
use a little help. “Did he just…try to communicate that
it wants our help?” Carsten remained unsure. “Maybe,” he said, thinking of
exactly how to verbalize what he was feeling. “But how do we know he means what
he says? Sorry, looks?” The animal assumed an almost huffy
posture. I am a great phoenix, dwarf. I
am deeply hurt and traumatized that you would suspect such a thing of me. Our
word is inviolate. “We cannot merely leave him here,”
Arcaena said. “Look, see that wound? It will kill him for certain.” “Can you heal it?” Carsten asked. Let
us hope so, the phoenix seemed to say. Dying
in a crater is quite the ignominious fate. And one unbefitting of me, to say
the least. “Maybe,” Arcaena
said, sliding down the crater’s wall and moving rather quickly to the animal’s
side. “But he has lost a lot of blood.” She put her hand on the massive gash
and began to murmur. The flaps of the wound began to glow with the same verdant
light that her spells generally cast, and they slowly began moving toward one
another. The animal gave a high-pitched whining sound, but then relaxed. Soon,
all that was left of the slice wound was a long, green glowing line. Arcaena
got to her feet and exhaled quite volubly. This particular healing had required
a substantial energy investment, and she felt spent, to say the least. “Well,” she said, “that wound will
be vulnerable for about a week, but other that that, he should be fixed up.”
The bird shook its feathered head, trying briefly to rise, only to collapse to
the ground. “What should we do with it?” Carsten
asked. “We can’t just leave it here, can we? It’ll get eaten by scavengers for
sure.” Arcaena nodded agreement. “True. What if…” She assumed a thoughtful
posture, stroking her chin. “Would you be willing to run back to the village
and fetch Deyann? He might know what to do.” “He won’t,” Carsten replied. “But
why not?” And with that, he took off running.
“I have no idea what to do,” Deyann
said, staring down at the phoenix. Gorme and Thalserr were beside him; after
all, great phoenix sightings made for quite the story, and the town council had
agreed that this was a matter they should address together. Other than that,
they had brought with them several strong dwarves, men, and dark elves, all of
whom had agreed to come. The dark elf sat on a stone at the edge of the crater,
stroking his chin. “Perhaps we could take him to the
village,” Thalserr suggested. “We may be able to aid his recovery.” Gorme shook
his head. “Can we?’ He challenged. “The
phoenix won’t be easy to lift, even if it decides not to set itself on fire. Is
it wise to risk that?” “Perhaps not,” Deyann conceded.
“Even so, can you really say you do not wish to help it?” Gorme remained
impassive. “Wishing cannot take away the
danger,” he answered. “Yes, I wish we could help it, but can we really? This
would put us in danger, like it or not. Still…” the dwarf sighed. “All right,
we’ll take it.” “One problem,” Thalserr said.
“Transport. We cannot possibly support it on every point it needs it.” “Then we make a stretcher,” one of
the men said. “Simple, right?” “Stretchers are not so simple to
fashion,” Deyann said. “It could take several hours.” “Best we get started, then,” Thalserr
said simply. The work took a while and several
trees; fortunately, Gorme never went anywhere without his mortising axe, and
Carsten had several knives that could easily be used to more finely cut the
poles. The paper-like bark of birch trees, when properly stretched, provided a
suitable material for the middle part. They began shortly after dawn and
finished three hours before noon; not the most efficient stretcher-building
exercise, perhaps, but more than effective. With some creative shifting, a little
bit of ingenuity, and a lot of muscle, the group managed to get the injured
bird onto the stretcher. One of the men grunted under the load. “I suppose great is a measure of
weight as well,” he moaned. The phoenix turned to look at Carsten, an almost exasperated
look on its face. In
all seriousness, am I truly so large? Among my kind, I am considered a runt. Runts
aren’t that bad, Carsten thought. Ask
anyone. Are you one, too? The
phoenix’s eyes seemed to ask. Carsten flushed, wondering if the animal could
really sense what he was thinking. Yes,
he conceded. As though it matters. It does. At least neither of us is
alone anymore. The dwarf shook his head in disbelief. Why
and how are we talking? He wondered. Neither
is really important, the bird answered. But
we are communicating. Of that you can
be sure. Carsten looked down at the ground. Am
I losing my mind? He mused thoughtfully. It seems as though I might be. You cannot lose something of which
you are not possessed, the phoenix said, giving a low
screech as the stretcher lifted and jostled its minor wounds. Fair
enough, Carsten replied. But still,
this is unusual, to say the least. We’re
unusual people, his companion replied. The redheaded
dwarf smiled despite himself at that. I
can believe that, he thought. The village itself was a different
matter than the outskirts. True, they bumped and stumbled along painfully
outside, but Haven’s muddy streets and narrow alleyways presented a new
plethora of challenges for the stretcher’s bearers. Still, they plodded on
without hesitation. More than once, someone lost his footing, and all the other
bearers inhaled collectively, as though expecting disaster. Such anticipated
horrors never came, and they finally managed to get the phoenix into a large
shed on the west side of town. Once owned by a somewhat wealthy trader, the
building was abandoned after his entire enterprise had collapsed a year back.
He still lived in Haven and now rented out the structure as a general storage
space. For them, however, he had made an exception. “Certainly,” he had answered when
Deyann had asked. “For you, half-price. Maybe a quarter. No promises on that
last one, but we’ll see. Let me know how he does.” The dark elf had agreed to
that and taken a key from the man, which he used to unlock the shed door. The
floor inside was covered in hay; not the most comfortable material, but better
than packed earth. They laid the phoenix down and filed out one by one, leaving
Carsten, Deyann, and Arcaena inside. The female healer knelt beside the animal,
examining its other wounds with interest. “It looks as though it was
attacked,” she murmured. “But by what, I cannot tell.” “A dragon, perhaps?” Carsten
suggested. “Perhaps,” the dark elf answered.
Deyann looked around momentarily, his eyes scanning the shed. Everything looks in order, he mused.
Turning to the other two, he saw a strange look in their eyes, and then he
suddenly felt uncomfortable. “I…” he began, choosing his words
carefully. “I am needed elsewhere. The market will open shortly, and that means
disputes, which in turn means that people will seek the elders’ council. I
should go.” Arcaena nodded. “If your duty calls, then go,” she
said. “We should be all right.” The other elf slipped out the door, leaving
Carsten and Arcaena alone. The young healer ran her fingers through the
feathers, healing wounds as she found them. After she finished, the bird gave a
contented moan, its eyes slowly sliding shut. Soon, it was breathing so deeply
that they both knew it had to be asleep. She sat there for a long time, musing
on what she had seen. Then, she got to her feet. “Well,” she said, “that will keep it
from dying. Those healings, though, may not have repaired all the damage. Just
in case, you may wish to keep it down for two weeks or so?” Carsten could tell,
by her tone, that she meant far more than that it was his responsibility to
care for it now. “But you’re the healer,” he said,
feeling dread rising in his chest. “Shouldn’t you see this through?” She shook
her head. “I cannot,” she answered. “I must
return home eventually, and now seems like the proper time.” Carsten felt
stunned; he had known that Arcaena would go, and that was fine as an
abstraction. However, for her to actually say it and declare that she intended to
do so was by far a different matter. He had no desire to see her go, now least
of all. “But the bird?” He asked. “Aren’t
you going to oversee his…her…its recovery?” Arcaena sighed. “That is what I would like to do,”
she replied. “But I cannot. My father probably believes me dead, and I would
like to show him otherwise. They are my family, and my first responsibility is
to them.” He smiled despite himself; even though he would have liked her to
stay, he knew that her devotion to her family would win out in the end. “When, exactly, do you intend to
leave?” He asked. The dark elf shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know,” she mused, looking
at the bird and rocking back and forth on her feet pensively. “Sometime in the
next three days or so. I thought it might be beneficial to leave a bit of time
for goodbyes.” Arcaena looked down, wondering what she ought to say next. “I…I
was wondering,” she began. “Yes?” Carsten asked. “You were
wondering what?” “About what?” He asked. Suddenly,
understanding dawned on him. “How…Arcaena, you do understand that, to my
people, even saying the words ‘I love you’ are tantamount to a proposition of
marriage, right? When I said that I loved you, I meant every word. If you’re
asking if I mean for us to get married...” he met her eyes steadily. “That is
what I want. Whether or not it is possible might be a different story, but I mean
for it, yes.” The dark elf lowered her head. In truth, to hear this both
comforted and grieved her. She had wanted to hear him verbalize what she knew
he felt; however, knowing made leaving much more difficult, to say the least. “I merely wanted to hear you say
it,” she told him. “It does me good to know.” “How can that be good?” Carsten
asked. “Here we are, on the verge of you departure, and you want me to tell you
this just now? Why?” “I needed to know that you meant
what you said,” Arcaena explained. “Some people are very good at acting like
they mean what they say. You, in my experience, are the worst liar I have ever
had the good fortune to encounter. It is good because it tells me that you
would be willing to put the right thing for one of us to do ahead of what we
might want.” “You’re essentially saying that you
wanted to hear me say that I could wait,” Carsten reasoned. She nodded. “Yes,” she told him. “The measure of
a man is not what he can do, but what he chooses not to and why.” Carsten bit
his lip. “So you really have to go?” He
asked. “I do.” She reached up and fingered
the necklace she wore. “Though I may be able to dull the pain of parting…”
Arcaena took the necklace off and handed it to him. “Take this.” “A necklace?” He asked. “I am
humbled that you would give this to me, but how does this…” “It happens to be fire-glass,” she
explained. “I put a visionary sigil on it to make sure I could communicate with
my family in the event of our parting. However, I brought the ring that functions
with it with me, so it would never have worked even if I had cared to try. Now
I think I may have found a use for it.” Carsten bowed his head in thanks. “I don’t think I can say the words
enough, but thank you. This can’t be easy to give away.” Arcaena shrugged. “Perhaps not. But
leaving is harder than merely sacrificing a piece of jewelry. Albeit an
enchanted one,” she added, with a smile. She walked to the door and put her
hand on it. Then, she turned around. “One thing before I go, though…” She stepped
close to Carsten and kissed him, even after she stopped ,the two of them
remained in each other’s arms. “Promise me that I can see you again,” she
whispered. “Promise me that you will come for me.” Carsten blinked, feeling a strange
stinging sensation behind his eyes. With a jolt, he realized that he was
crying; however, he was quite far past caring. “I promise,” he whispered.
“We’ll see each other again.” He felt her begin to pull away and relaxed his
grip. She was about to step through the door when Deyann entered the building
again. Arcaena stepped back after she saw him; the expression on his face quite
clearly conveyed that something was wrong. “What is it?” She asked. “What
happened?” “Are you familiar with the air
courier system?” He asked. “Yes,” she acknowledged slowly.
“Why?” “Your father sent couriers here,” he
explained. Then, he turned to Carsten. “Aside from wanting Arcaena back, Oriem
has sent other news. More disconcerting news. Have you heard of a village named
Vadhyl?” Carsten nodded. “That’s the Shatterhands’ home se…”
Suddenly, he realized what he was saying, and what Oriem was about to say. “No,
that’s not possible. Tell me it isn’t true?” “What?” Arcaena pressed. “What isn’t
true?” “The village was beset by raiders a
week ago,” Deyann explained. “A few dwarves survived, according to Oriem’s
intelligence, but he does not know who or how they fare.” Carsten felt his
knees buckle as though someone had punched him in the gut. “Thorvald…” he whispered. “No…” “Thorvald?” Arcanea asked. “Who is
Thorvald?” “My uncle,” Carsten explained. “If
they attacked the village, they would have targeted the family specifically.
Strike the shepherd, scatter the sheep. That means Thorvald, my cousin Olaf,
and aunt Rowena are all gone.” “You cannot possibly know that,” she
protested. “They could still be alive.” “Possible, but unlikely,” Deyann
answered. “It is unwise to give him hope where little exists. I will give you a
few moments, but then I need you to come with me, Arcaena. It is time.” After
he went through the door again, she turned and put her hands on Carsten’s
shoulder. “Is there anything I can do?” She
asked. “Anything you need?” He shook his head. “I don’t think you deal in revenge,”
Carsten replied. “So no. But I want you to know that I am going to put a stop
to these raids, even if it’s the last thing I do.” Arcaena walked to the door,
her dream suddenly coming back to her in full force. She knew now that the man
in red armor was no man at all; it was Carsten. The thought staggered her; her
best friend, her fiancée, she amended, had been impaled, or at least he might
be. “Be careful,” she admonished. “It
just might be.” Vadhyl One
week prior Thorvald Stormhammer was not happy.
Not happy at all. Then again, having one’s village besieged was far from
pleasant, and that generally made people more than upset. As village guard
leader and elder, he was responsible for its defense. His lieutenant, Qural
Ironhoof, ordered the wall defenses while Thorvald himself coordinated the
villagers’ evacuation. The attackers had proved inefficient at best at mounting
an assault on the walls. Unlike most Outlands villages, Vadhyl had carven stone
walls designed to keep the Outlands’ more dangerous inhabitants out. This had
proved a wise decision; siege ladders could find no purchase on the smooth
dwarven stonework, and siege weapons proved ineffective against it as well.
Still, he could not quite shake the feeling that the attackers were waiting for
something, though what exactly he was unsure. The villager’s women and children
exited through a subterranean passage that came out on the western mountains.
The journey was long and treacherous, and the passage itself was notorious
unstable. Still, it was their only escape route, and as such, they took it
willingly. After his latest trip, Thorvald came out to see Qural running toward
him. The fact that the minotaur was running told him two things. First, that he
was worried, and second, that he wanted Thorvald’s help, or his advice at the
very least. “What’s the matter?” He asked. “The outer walls,” Qural said. “They
have been taken. I pulled the men back to fight the besiegers again, but I do
not know that we can hold them.” “Taken?” Thorvald echoed. “How?
When?” “About twenty minutes ago,” Qural
told him. “They used some kind of soldier I have never seen before; they just
appeared on the walls, and the next thing we knew, they had opened the
portcullis.” “Magic,” Thorvald whispered. Looking
at Qural, he said, “Are the inner walls’ wardings still intact?” Qural nodded. “They are,” he answered. “But they
also brought battering rams, which they can use against the gate. It will not
hold forever.” Thorvald nodded. “I see,” he
murmured. “I want you to pick twenty of the guard. Order them to fall back and
collapse the tunnel behind you. We will hold them here.” “But to do that is suicide,” Qural
protested. “You’ll die.” “It is better for one man and the
guard to die than for all our people to perish,” Thorvald answered. “And,
Qural…?” The minotaur nodded, interpreting
his nonverbalized statement. “Your son will be with us. You have my word.” Olaf Thorvaldson was occupied at the
moment. Then again, having someone’s hand around one’s throat generally counted
for more than mere occupation. Currently a Vanahym raider was choking him,
something that he really hated. Ordinarily, he would have happily decapitated
such an enemy with his twin lacquered blue axes, but the raider had managed to
knock them away from him. So, back to the problem at hand, or more accurately,
with its hands on him. Olaf pulled his left leg up and launched a flat-footed
kick into the creature’s knee. The Vanahym staggered and momentarily relaxed
his grip. That was more time than Olaf needed; he followed up with a harder
kick to his side. Again, the Vanahym went reeling, giving Olaf time to grab one
of his axes. The Vanahym turned, though just in time to get the weapon in the
gut. His eyes went wide with shock, but they soon took on a mortuary glaze, and
he collapsed to the ground. Olaf grabbed his second axe and looked up at the
wall; the inside structures were far more poorly crafted than the outside wall,
and the siege ladders had somehow found a hold there. The raiders had made it
up and over with little trouble, and the guardsmen were quickly overwhelmed.
Two more of them charged him, but a series of cuts and hacks put them down for
good. Olaf scaled the wall shortly, followed by several guards. Olaf steadily
carved his way up the stone rampart, shredding the Vanahym in front of them in
short order. With another guardsman at his side, the work went even faster, and
the small wedge of fighters soon crested the wall. Another push got them to the
siege ladder, which Olaf managed to shove over the wall without much trouble.
This, he reasoned, would give the guards more time, which it did. More guards
flooded to the walls, throwing stones and spears down at the attackers. Several
fell, and a small contingent of archers came to pick of the siege-ladder
bearers. “Olaf!” The yell above the fray
startled him, and the voice calling even more so. It was Qural, and he looked
down over the wall to see the minotaur standing below him. “This had better be good,” he
muttered. “No,” he answered. “It’s bad. Very
bad.” “Absolutely not,” Olaf said after
Qural had explained himself. “I am not about to leave when everyone else is
mounting a defense. This our home, and all for us deserve a chance to at least
fight for it.” “Which you would be doing by coming
with us,” Qural told him. “If you refuse to listen to me, at least listen to
your father’s command. He told me to gather twenty fighters, and I chose you as
one of them.” Even as he said the words, he knew Olaf would obey. His father’s
word to him was as good as the word of the Maker himself. “The rest of my family?” He
questioned. “Safe on the other side,” Qural
answered. “Now, come on. They can hold the wall, for the time being.” “All right,” the dwarf replied,
slowly saying the words, as if they pained him. “We go. But get the twenty
first, and then we go. And I will be the last.” Qural opened his mouth to
protest, but Olaf shook his head. “There is no negotiating here,” the
dwarf told him. “Get to it.” The twenty fighters were relatively
easy to find, and Qural funneled them quite unobtrusively into the tunnel. Some
of them however, required weapons, which took additional time. Qural also
grabbed some supplies that he had stored in a safe place; “In case of a rainy
day,” he explained. They all began to move into the network, led by the minotaur,
who had brought a torch to light the way. Before they entered, however, Qural
shut the tunnel with a shower of rock and stone, as Thorvald had ordered. Going
through the tunnel was slow at best; in more than one area, chasms were bridged
by narrow rope-and-plank constructions, which made all of them uneasy.
Crossings had to be undertaken one and two at a time, which made the journey
even slower. They traveled for about an hour before it happened; they heard
voices in the tunnel. “What is that?” Qural whispered. “Raiders,” one of the men whispered.
“Not just any raiders,” Olaf
murmured. “The ones that took the outside walls. The enchanted ones.” “I know,” the minotaur answered.
“But how did they get in here?” “The walls might be warded,” Olaf
said, “But the tunnels are not.” He looked down the path, seeing a fork in it.
“Qural, do you still remember how to do a warding?” “Yes,” he replied. “But that will
merely impede their passage, and we would need time to make more in increments
to be sure they do not follow.” “I can buy you time,” Olaf said. The
left fork leads into Madman’s Maze, and I know the way through. I’ll join you
after I’ve gotten rid of them.” “But…” Qural began. “Shut it and get that warding up.
I’m the best fighter after you that’s here,” Olaf snapped. “I’ll get them to
follow.” Qural took his chain-blade and carved an impromptu warding on the
right side of the fork. Wardings were like magic power stop signs; any powers
employed in a certain radius would be rendered ineffective. Of, course, that
depended on the warding’s magical frequency; the specific ones that the
Shatterhands had placed in the stone and that Qural had erected here simply
functioned as magic catch-alls; any being with strong magical powers could not
cross without extreme pain. Olaf himself had a decent magical capacity, and he
made a mental note not to tell anyone how much he vomited crossing the warding. “Go,” he whispered. “And the Maker
be with you.” And with that, the other twenty men filed down the fork. Olaf
waited calmly at the fork until he saw them come into view. They were clad in
purple robes that covered their faces, and they had baldrics strung along their
chests and covered with daggers, which looked like they might be weighted for
throwing. “Over here!” Olaf shouted. “Come
on.” They were aware of him, but he did not wait for them to come. Without a
second thought he turned around and ran into the Maze. The Whisperer leader looked to his
men. “It would seem that they left one man as a distraction.” “Then we do not follow?” One of them
asked. “We do not,” he answered. “On…” The
right tunnel blocked him like an invisible wall. He swore and tried again, with
similar results. “Warded,” he remarked. “Then what do we do?” Another asked.
“We follow him,” the leader replied.
“If we cannot have them, then at least we shall have revenge.” Olaf stopped running about twenty
minutes in, and he took some time to prepare his strategy. They had magical
powers he lacked, and they could strike him unawares as easily as he could
strike them. An ambush attack might reveal his position to them…suddenly, he
had an idea. He unlimbered his axes and flattened himself against the tunnel
wall, waiting. “It is a maze,” the leader murmured. “Do we split up?” One asked. “We do,” he answered. “Find him and
take his blood. We will use it to craft a sigil to break the warding.” The first group of Vanahym to cross
paths with Olaf never saw him coming; a swift stroke at the first’s neck
decapitated him, and the second barely had time to notice before an axe blow
gutted him. The dwarf turned and ran into the tunnels once more. The next group
was similarly easy; a series of blows to their backs put them down for good,
and vanished once again. By this time, he could hear exclamations of surprise
from the other raiders. I suppose they
found the bodies, he thought. He pressed his ear against the stone wall,
hearing at least four of them on the other side. Olaf took his axe blade and
began to carve on the wall, carefully forming the lines of the warding as he
did so. Apparently, at least one of the Vanahym heard him, because they all
gathered on the other side and began taunting him. “We will find you, dwarf,” one of
them snarled. “And then we will kill you.” Olaf kept his eyes on his work,
painstakingly finishing the symbol. Then, he placed his hand on it and
whispered the proper incantation. The symbol began to pulsate with a
blood-tinged glow, and he heard screams and cries of pain on the other side of
the wall, followed by a small explosion. He fought back his own wave of nausea;
the raiders on the other side were by no means dead, but they were certainly
not going to be a problem again. A warding activated that close to a being of
the proper power level was akin to a dragon-fire blast at point-blank range.
Even for Olaf, whose aptitude was limited to preparatory spells, such a symbol
induced severe motion sickness, and he was fighting with everything he was
worth not to vomit. Still, as he staggered down the tunnel, he could not help
but feel at least a little satisfaction. He had managed a proper frequency warding
without trouble, and that was a feat of which his magic instructor would have
been proud. Rejoicing had to wait, for just at
that moment, the leader’s group appeared, four men strong. One rushed him, and
Olaf readied himself to fell the attacker with an axe stroke, shaking his
dizzied sickness away. His attack, however, sliced only thin air. His opponent
vanished in a puff of smoke, and Olaf immediately swung the axe behind him. He
heard it crunch solidly and felt a massive impact. Turning, he saw the raider,
his eyes wide, with the weapon’s blade stuck in his ribs. Then, the wide eyes
closed, and he dropped. Olaf whirled again, but two more were on him. One went
for his throat with a knife, but the dwarf dropped his left-hand axe, caught
the attacker’s arm, and drove the knife into the other’s chest. His eyes
widened, and his body hit the floor. The other was about to draw another knife,
but he suddenly arched his back and dropped to his knees. Olaf stared in shock,
seeing one of the leader’s knives protruding from his back. The leader, however,
did not draw another dagger. Instead, he reached into his belt and pulled a
long, wicked-looking sword from its sheath there. “Weak, are they not?” He asked the
dwarf. “In all honesty, they are mere novices. I only wanted to test you to see
if you were as good as she said.” “She?” Olaf echoed. “Never mind.” He
swung his axes back and forth. “So, shall we?” The raider assassin removed his
hood, revealing a pale, hairless head with a fanged smile and many blued tattoo
marks. “Why not?” In all honesty, the dwarf
did not appear impressive. His long hair was a smattering of black, brown, and
grey, as though it had no idea what color it preferred. His beard, short for a
dwarf, and with only two braids, had definitely decided on jet black. His eyes
were green and intelligent, and snake tattoos wound their way up and down his
arms, but that was not what the Vanahym leader was looking for. It was that
killer instinct, the drive to live even if it cost others their lives. And he
saw it.; this dwarf was just as much the killer he was. Maybe even more so.
“You are quite good at this, are you not?” He shrugged. “I hold my own,” he answered. The
Vanahym assumed a sword guard position that Olaf recognized. It was a near ward
stance, one that played quite readily into a fast, offensive style. His first
onslaught confirmed that; a barrage of cuts and hacks, with a few thrusts
thrown in for good measure. Olaf dodged a few strokes, parried some more, and
deflected the rest. He suddenly tipped the scales and went forward on an
assault of his own; he swung low, then thrust one axe-head into the man’s
stomach, staggering him. He was about to follow up with a savage cut to his
stomach, but something held him back. Literally. Looking down, he saw that, in
a final act of spiteful vengeance, one of the other raiders had reached out and
grabbed his ankle. He turned just in time to bend-dodge another thrust. However,
the raider expected him to do this, and he drew a second, shorter blade from
his belt, slashing at Olaf’s head as he went past. The dwarf stopped the blade,
but not before it slashed painfully into his right cheek. Suddenly, he felt
searing pain, and he realized with a jolt that the attack had sliced out his
right eye. Staggering, he turned and ran into the maze, breathing hard. “What is the matter?” The raider’s
taunting voice called after him. “Are you frightened of me?” Olaf kept moving,
finding a dead end in the maze. Once there, he took a moment to collect
himself. That done, he reached up and put his hand on the injury, murmuring the
words to a healing spell he knew. Magic might not have been his first line of
defense, but he had a few lethal spells in case of emergency, in addition to
some healing enchantments. “That will do you no good,” the
raider called through the maze. “I can feel your power, boy. You cannot heal a
wound inflicted by our weapons; they have mortuary sigils. Carved by my own
hand, nearly a millennium ago.” Olaf, despite the pain, started thinking and, more
importantly, putting his rather radical contingency plan into action. Blast. That isn’t good, he
thought. Mortuary sigils were an ancient weapon preparation rite, used to
render wounds dealt by a weapon so warded incurable by other magic. Olaf always
thought of them as a sorcerer’s compensation for poor weapon-craft; it simply
accounted for its wielder’s imprecision. He would need a healing spell older
than the sigil to counter it, but the oldest healing spell he knew came six
centuries after the newest mortuary sigil, and the burning sensation on his
face told him this one was old indeed. That, and the age of their wielder, if
he spoke the truth, made it unlikely that any healing he or other Outlanders
might try could work. There might only be a half dozen mages in all of Pathonia
that could counter the spell, and every one of them lived in the Free Peoples’
domain. So a healing is out, he
though bitterly. Taking a deep breath, Olaf drew his hand away from his face.
He noticed the smear of blood, and then an idea struck him. He gathered as much
blood from the wound as he could, and then he began to draw on the wall. First a circle, he recalled. Then the script and incantation. Hopefully,
he could prepare the spell before they found him. He drew as he said the words;
multitasking was another talent magic users seemed to exercise frequently. “Shoyne
eschar netras,” he murmured. “Athegen
faur amurad…” Suddenly, he heard footsteps outside. He kept drawing, making
sure his lines were precise, though ertainly moving faster than he had before.
An improperly drawn sigil would be ineffective, after all. He just finished as
the raider’s leader came around the corner. He had the sword in his hand still,
and with him were the remaining eight raiders. “You have nowhere to run, dwarf,” he
mocked. “And no one can save you. Not even your father. You are the last one,
the final Shatterhand to die this day. But fear not; we shall soon find the
others.” Then, his eyes went to the painting on the wall. Was that a…his heart
stopped. That symbol was old, older even that the sigils on their knives. A
spell only used by two other people in recallable history. The power emanating
from it was overwhelming, to say the least. “You would not…” “Watch me,” Olaf spat, putting his
bloodied hand on the wall and shouting the final words. “Leyghen pauner ka’elderath!” Suddenly, he felt a burning sensation
in his chest, and his arm tattoos suddenly started glowing with a harsh red
light. Smoke began pouring off his skin, and he felt the fresh wound on his
face sear closed. The raiders stopped, not quite comprehending what they were
seeing. Then it happened; the light faded, and then the world went painfully
bright. They shielded their eyes, but no force on earth could stop the arcane
wave that spread outward from the blood-drawn epicenter. They did not even have
time to cry out before the tide of energy engulfed them, and by that time, they
could not. They could not even speak, for their mouths, tongues, and skin had
turned to rock in the spell’s casting. They stood there, their bodies turned to
stone in their clothes, which had remained untouched. Eternal, dynamically frozen
statues, captured in still-life. They even still held their weapons, which had
also remained unscathed. Olaf took several minutes to rise to his feet, and
when he did, there was a strange light burning in his good eye. We walked over
to the leader’s petrified form and took the shortsword from his hand. As he had
said, there was a mortuary sigil on it. Olaf took the weapon and its scabbard,
strapping it to his own waist. He used the weapon to carve a patch out of the
brown leather of one of the raider’s baldrics, which he lashed over his
now-ruined eye. Then, for good measure, he went over and shoved the leader’s
statuesque form as hard as he could, watching in cold satisfaction as it
shattered. He stopped the rolling stone head with his foot, then gave it a
solid kick against a wall, listening with subdued smugness as it cracked.
“Blockhead,” he muttered, turning
back toward the tunnel and slowly walking back. Qural’s wading gave him another
nausea attack, but Olaf barely felt it. Instead, he only felt cold, remembering
the raider’s words. The last of the
Shatterhands to die today, he reflected. “I’m sorry, father,” he whispered.
“I failed you again.” © 2016 Jake |
StatsAuthorJakeAboutStudent, writer, LEGO fan. I love fantasy and science fiction, and my background as a history student has led me to experiment with some historical fiction as well. more..Writing
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