“Why would An, the Creator, allow such creatures to exist?” Erik asked, looking at one carving of a fire-breathing creature that looked like the combination of some giant lizard and a spider.
“Sin corrupts even the purest things,” Balzarak replied, “and evil blackens even the brightest hearts.”
“What do these runes say?” Erik asked.
“That is very astute,” Balzarak said, “recognizing that these are ancient runes.”
“We saw some as we entered the territory of Thorakest,” Erik said.
“I only know what they say because of my intensive schooling. Most dwarves wouldn’t be able to read them. Maybe Gôdruk will be able to. I doubt anyone else here could.”
“And what do they say?” Erik asked.
“They are names, mostly,” Balzarak replied, “and chronicles, a history of our people. These are lost clans—Blood Axe, Stone Hammer, Red Steel, Golden Blade, Bone Breaker.”
“Myths.” Threhof’s voice startled Erik. He was stealthy for a dwarf and had even snuck up on the general, evident in the dwarf’s eyes when he turned around to see the former guardsman standing there.
“Perhaps,” Balzarak replied. “Even a year ago I might have agreed with you. But now … today, I don’t know. I think not so much myths, but lost truths.”
“General?” Threhof said.
“Today’s events,” Balzarak explained, “yesterday’s, this week’s, by An, the events of these past several months, have led me to believe that what our people have heralded as ghost stories are actually not. There are dwarves who believed that even the lost city of Orvencrest was a tall tale,” Balzarak said.
“I once thought a world outside my farm a myth,” Erik said. “A painful realization perhaps.”
“Very painful,” Balzarak agreed.
“This is not the only truth once thought a myth, though,” Erik said, “revealed by these runes, is it? What happened to the lost clans? What happened to the city of Orvencrest?”
“I think every type of people in this world have a dark past,” Balzarak replied, “even we dwarves. The legend of Orvencrest, lost to many, is one that some of us who were born to lead learn, so that this doesn’t happen again.”
“General,” Threhof said, almost hissing.
“Calm yourself, Threhof,” Balzarak said. “Speaking of a ghost doesn’t magically make it appear.”
“I don’t understand,” Erik said.
“Orvencrest wasn’t lost, as most think,” Balzarak replied. “It was attacked, taken from the dwarves, and those lucky enough to escape have kept what happened a secret.”
“Why?” Erik asked. “And who? Who could attack a dwarvish city?”
Threhof said something to Balzarak in Dwarvish, and Erik couldn’t quite catch what he said. The general put a hand up, silencing the elder dwarf.
“Dwarves, Erik,” Balzarak replied.
“Dwarves?” Erik repeated.
“Aye,” the general replied. “Dwarves. Dwarves that had been twisted by the Shadow. Dwarves that had been turned against their own people by the promise of treasure and power. It is such a dark part of our history that most dwarves won’t even speak of it. It has become a bedtime story we tell our children if they are misbehaving. Be good or the dwomanni will come take you away.”
“Is that what you call them,” Erik asked, “the traitors?”
“Yes, the dwomanni,” Balzarak replied. “Xenophobic. Power hungry. They are remotely related to dwarves now, but once, they were our brothers and sisters. Most think it’s just that—a bedtime story. But some of us knew better … or, at least had an idea.”
“The dwomanni rebelled,” Erik said, “and as the dwarves abandoned the city, they put up guardians to keep them in.”
“Not just them,” Balzarak replied.
“I don’t understand,” Erik said.
“According to these runes,” Balzarak replied, “Orvencrest was the holding place of a powerful weapon—a weapon that would make the wielder god-like.”
“A god-like weapon?” Threhof asked. “That seems far-fetched. Dwarves are powerful, but that would mean something magical … more than magical.”
“Aye,” Balzarak said. “I wish you could read the runes for yourself. Certainly, something … or someone, powerful and magical.”
“The dwomanni stole this weapon?” Erik asked.
“It is doubtful,” the general replied. “This is new to me. I had never heard of this weapon in my studies, whatever it might be. But, believe me, if the dwomanni had uncovered this weapon, and knew how to use it, they would have done so already. It is foolish to think they would simply stay here in Orvencrest and die away. They dug deep into the earth. Many of them, according to the few writings I have on them, have spread throughout the deepest parts of the world, hiding in darkness. Given something that has god-like powers … they would have used it against us by now.”
“Another myth,” Threhof said.
“Haven’t we already proven that these supposed myths are no longer myths?” Balzarak asked.
“This weapon is still hidden within the city,” Erik said, as much to himself as to Balzarak.
“Aye,” Balzarak said.
“But the runes don’t say what exactly it is?” Erik asked.
“No,” Balzarak replied. “It’s vague. The language is old. I don’t quite understand it. It could be some siege weapon imbued with powers. It could—could have been—some ancient animal. It could be a spell. I don’t know.”
“I wonder if the treasure that the Lord of the East wants us to find is related somehow,” Erik said.
“I thought you said it was a writ of lineage,” Threhof said, “some record of his family history.”
“That’s what the Messenger of the East told us when he met us in Finlo,” Erik recalled. “That is what he told those people who accepted his offer of service and took a map to Orvencrest.”
“I wouldn’t put it past the Lord of the East to lie about what he seeks here in Orvencrest,” Balzarak said.
“How could a scroll be related to a weapon?” Threhof asked.
Balzarak shrugged, thinking for a moment.
“Directions to where it is hidden,” he said. “Instructions on how to make it. A spell to reveal it, maybe.”
“If it’s related to some mighty weapon,” Erik asked, “then why send mercenaries? Why not the Soldiers of the Eye?”
“Waste less resources, perhaps,” Balzarak said. “Keep his hands clean. As Threhof said, up until now, this was just a myth.”
“So deceitful,” Threhof grumbled.
“Does that surprise you?” Balzarak asked.
“If this thing that the Lord of the East wants us to find is truly related to something so powerful,” Erik said, “and we find it, should we deliver it?”
“Absolutely not,” Threhof replied, raising his voice a bit.
“I don’t know,” Balzarak said. “Who would you rather have this weapon, the dwomanni or Golgolithul?”
“Neither,” Threhof argued. “We take it to King Skella.”
“Perhaps,” Balzarak said. Erik couldn’t help recognizing that look of uncertainty on the dwarf’s face. “If we take this scroll to a dwarvish city—and it is directions on how to find or create this thing that the Lord of the East wants—are we foolish enough to think the Lord of the East wouldn’t wage war against us?”
“Let him wage war,” Threhof replied, puffing out his chest. “Let his soldiers crash and die against the might of the dwarvish army.”
“War is never so simple,” Balzarak said, his voice sad and somber. “And we don’t know if the Lord of the East even knows how to use this weapon. He may read this scroll he desires and think it nothing but gibberish.”
“He has the black mage,” Threhof argued.
“That he does,” Balzarak said. “And he is a powerful wizard himself.”
“If the dwomanni haven’t found it yet, after all these years, why would you be worri
ed about them finding it?” Erik asked.
“They know we are here,” Balzarak replied. “They will follow us. If we find it, they will undoubtedly try to take it.”
“Do they look like any other dwarves?” Erik asked.
“No,” Balzarak replied. “They have gray skin and white hair and are short, spindly creatures, shells of their dwarvish past. They hate the sun and the surface and worship dark gods. The truly zealous dwomanni blind themselves in reverence to their gods. They are becoming bold as of late; only recently have we seen evidence of their reemergence.”
“The young dwarf in Strongbur,” Erik muttered, remembering the accusation of Fréden Fréwin. The mayor had accused men of twisting a young dwarf’s heart, causing him to spy on his own people, but as Balzarak spoke, Erik knew it was these mutant descendants of the dwarves that had coerced him. It made sense. It was a perfect plan. Cause friction within the dwarvish people as they fight, whether or not men are the enemy, all the while sowing the seeds of dissention with those dwarves power hungry enough to listen.
“Yes,” Balzarak replied.
“So, is the mayor in league with the dwomanni?” Erik asked, wondering if Fréwin had gone beyond simply listening to the young dwarf.
“No,” the general replied. “And I don’t think he would ever be. He is xenophobic, just like they are. They are no longer dwarves. He would look at them just as he looks at you. But there are many like him, prideful and suspicious.”
“What do we do, then?” Erik asked.
“Be careful,” Balzarak said. “This place is more dangerous than I originally thought. It is the realm of the Shadow, which means more than just dwomanni. They will be serving a master. They may inhabit this place, but they are not its masters.”
“We are the masters of this place,” Threhof said. “It is our right, by blood. It is your right, Lord Balzarak.”
“No longer,” Balzarak said.
Chapter 3
Fréden Fréwin sat in his throne-like chair knuckling his chin in frustration. A young servant walked up the steps to the dais on which Fréden sat. He held a silver platter in his hands, a single, silver cup resting in the middle. The servant knelt and bowed when he reached the mayor.
“Get out!” Fréden yelled, slapping the cup off the platter. Wine spilled from the cup, some of it splashing the young servant in the face. The young dwarf gave a short yelp, bowed, and turned and ran down the stairs.
Fréden Fréwin stared at the splotches of purple wine, slowly running into the cracks of the stone that made up his dais.
He knew it would leave a stain. He felt his face grow hot and red.
He looked up, wanting to call his servant back, but he was already gone.
“Clumsy fool,” Fréden muttered.
He looked back at the wine. The purple stains on the stone, the dirt on the floor, it all made him grip his armchair with white knuckles.
“Is someone going to clean this mess!” he yelled. He stood. “Someone clean this, now!”
The hall was silent. Few of the citizens of Thorakest meandered through the mayor’s chambers, but those few who visited quickly left. Another dwarf, one dressed in a livery of gold and red with a burette of blue velvet and leather shoes that curled at the toes, walked up Fréden’s dais. Fréden Fréwin sat, and the other dwarf bent down to speak with him. He whispered and Fréden knew he meant what he said only for his ears. He hated it when Nalbin did that.
“My lord, people are watching,” Nalbin said.
“I don’t care who watches!” Fréden screamed, his voice echoing through the hall of his keep. He looked to Nalbin. Any other dwarf would’ve cowered at that look, but not Nalbin. He never cowered to Fréden. That infuriated him even more. “Whose hall do they congregate in? Whose favor do they seek?”
He stood up, glaring at the few aristocrats and merchants, the local business owners and artisans that still stood in his hall. They all stared at him, frightened, perplexed, offended.
“Get out!” he yelled. No one moved. They just stared. He looked down at his feet. The silver cup rested just at the foot of his chair. He picked it up and threw it at the closest dwarf he could, a fat merchant dressed in wide, brown robes, barely missing his head. The merchant turned and made for the hall’s door, not bothering to wait for his servants or the two guards that protected his goods. The other dwarves in the hall followed suit.
“Get out!” Fréden yelled again. He slumped back into his chair as soon as his hall was clear, sighing heavily and resting his chin on his chest. The only dwarf left in the hall was Nalbin.
“My lord,” said Nalbin. Fréden gave him a sidelong glance and huffed.
“Skella welcomed these men into Thorakest,” Fréden spat at the mention of men, “as if they were long lost cousins.”
“He did imprison them, for a time,” Nalbin suggested.
“Imprison?” Fréden questioned with pure disdain. “They had access to the greatest city in all Háthgolthane … in all the world. How is that a prison?”
“They were not free to come and go as they pleased,” Nalbin said with a quick shrug of his shoulders.
“And should they be?” Fréden said. “They are men. They encroach on our territory more every day.”
“All men, my lord?” Nalbin asked.
“Does it matter?” Fréden hissed, leaning forward and clenching a fist. “The one who encroaches on our lands the most is the very one who sent these men into our midst.”
Nalbin just shrugged his shoulders again.
“The Lord of the East, you imbecile,” the mayor said. “And we are to believe they have been sent on some mission to find the lost city of Orvencrest.”
“Is that so unbelievable?” Nalbin asked.
“Orvencrest is a myth,” the mayor replied, slamming a fist on the armrest of his chair and staring out into his empty keep. “It is a rouse, to get men journeying into our lands, an attempt to plant spies in our midst.”
Fréden Fréwin clenched his teeth as he groaned.
“And all the while that fool of a king allows more and more men into our lands, under the guise of truce and peace and trade,” the mayor whispered, giving Nalbin a sidelong glance, not sure if his advisor heard him. He trusted Nalbin … mostly. But in reality, he didn’t trust anyone. Then, he added, “He is singlehandedly going to destroy our people.”
“Doesn’t that seem a little far-fetched, my lord?” Nalbin asked. “The Lord of the East sending mercenaries on a fool’s mission just to plant spies in our lands?”
Fréden just glared at Nalbin, anger and malice in his eyes. Nalbin backed up a step.
“What if the lost city isn’t a myth?” Nalbin finally asked after a long silence.
“What if …” Fréden replied. King Skella had done so many things, made so many policies, so many mistakes, on what ifs. But Fréden had entertained the thought, as fanciful as it might be.
“If Orvencrest was real,” Fréden said, “then the riches there would be enough to change the course of dwarvish history.”
“I don’t understand,” Nalbin said.
“Of course, you don’t, you dimwit,” Fréden accused. “We could sway dwarves loyal to our people to our side. We could raise an army to fight back against the hordes of men intruding on our lands.”
“An army, my lord?” Nalbin asked. “What of King Skella? What of the dukes?”
“Traitors,” the mayor seethed. “We do as we would any traitor … we depose them.”
“Are you serious?” Nalbin said, lowering his voice to an almost inaudible whisper. “This is insanity.”
Fréden’s hand slowly moved inside his robes. His fingers tickled the small knife held by his belt.
“Are you with me or not, Nalbin?” he asked calmly. Nalbin was useful, but not enough to spare his life if he wasn’t going to support him.
Nalbin’s back straightened as he stood firm, a resilient look on his face.
“Must you even ask, my lord,” Nalbin re
plied. “Of course, I am with you.”
Fréden suddenly began to think of the mounds of treasure, the ancient weapons, the histories in the lost city of Orvencrest, as fanciful a thought as it might be.
“We need someone to follow Skull Crusher and General Balzarak,” Fréden said.
“I think I know of just the person, my lord,” Nalbin said, retrieving a letter from his pocket and giving it to the mayor.
Fréden read the letter and then looked at his servant, his face red hot with anger.
“You are just now giving this to me?”
“I was waiting for the right time,” Nalbin said, backing away again. “He reached out to us. He knows Skull Crusher has betrayed his people.”
“Yes, I read the letter,” Fréden replied. “Can we trust Belvengar Long Spear, once having been such a close friend with Skull Crusher?”
“Yes, I believe so, my lord,” Nalbin replied. “His family has long been critical of King Skella, and his father before him.”
“We must use Long Spear, then,” Fréden said. “He is an adept assassin. It is why he left. Send a letter to him. Tell him we wish to enlist his help. Even if there is no lost city—which I doubt there is—if anyone could kill General Balzarak, it would be Long Spear. The death of the Lord of Fornhig while in our lands would do much to drive a wedge between King Skella and King Tharren. It might even sway the north to our cause.”
It was a long shot. Fréden knew that. Thrak Baldüukr had long been allies with Gol-Durathna. But if he could convince King Tharren that men had a hand in the death of his nephew, he might at least support their efforts in the south of eradicating those surface-dwelling dogs from their lands. King Tharren might even support a new king in Drüum Balmdüukr—King Fréden Fréwin. The mayor liked the sound of that.
“It is time to make our move, Nalbin,” Fréden said. “It is time the Fréwin name took its rightful place in dwarvish history.”
Chapter 4
Kehl sat back in Toth’s old chair. It was wide with a cushioned seat. He looked about the office, its enchanted door closed and unseen by those on the other side, the room lit dimly by glass jars sitting on shelves and tables. They had no oil, no candles. Thieves’ magic. Kehl didn’t like it. He always had a general disdain for magic. But lately, it had proved useful. He was able to meet with his lieutenant and his other men in private. He was able to listen in on the thieves and their private conversations—root out possible traitors and assassins. He was able to change his appearance without makeup and masks and walk about Finlo, its citizens unaware of his origins.
Breaking the Flame Page 2