Dawncaller

by David Rice

  Dawncaller

  Half-Elven Book Three

  David Rice

  Three Ravens Publishing

  Copyright © 2020 David Rice

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 9781234567890

  ISBN-10: 1477123456

  Cover design by: Art Painter

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

  Printed in the United States of America

  FOR MOM

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  II

  DAWNCALLER:

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  XXII

  XXIII

  XXIV

  XXV

  XXVI

  XXVII

  XXVIII

  XXIX

  XXX

  XXXI

  XXXII

  XXXIII

  XXXIV

  XXXV

  XXXVI

  XXXVII

  XXXVIII

  XXXIX

  XL

  XLI

  XLII

  XLIII

  XLIV

  XLV

  XLVI

  DAWNCALLER:

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Cover Design: Rebecca Frank

  Website: Rebeccafrank.design

  PROLOGUE

  I

  Nezzil Shornedge stomped upwards through the scree of the mountain slope and wheezed as mightily as the thin air allowed. “Ye daft muttonlovers! Slow down an’ let me catch meh breath.”

  “Put that bag o’ rocks down fer once,” Horik Deepdelve laughed from his ledge above. “No one’s gonna take it from you up here. Not without us seeing them coming a long way off.”

  Dindur Pebblemaw leaned on his climbing pick and added his own distemper to the conversation. “An’ if yeh hadn’t grabbed those stones from them desert folk, they wouldn’t be tracking us now, would they?”

  “They stopped following us a while ago,” Horik replied as he continued his zigzag ascent. “No one can track on sheer rock. Besides, I want to see what the One put on the other side of these mountains. There has to be something there.”

  Nezzil fumed at Horik’s stubbornness. Ever since leaving Thunderwall, the young Deepdelver has fantasized about climbing the mountains to the very top to see what was on the other side. It didn’t seem to matter that the Mysteries told them the One forbid such a journey.

  If they kept on with their foolish climb, they’d run out of air or freeze before they ever found out.

  “Toss the ore. Let them have it and we’ll be safe,” Horik shouted down to Nezzil.

  “The Jarl’ll think different when he sees this new kinda ore,” Nezzil snapped. “It’ll put us all at the front of the Bildugsroam. You’ll see.” The shouting made him dizzy. Nezzil wheezed again and lowered himself to one knee. He set down his leather satchel and concentrated upon pulling more of the dry air into his lungs. The spots that were lingering along the outskirts of his eyes began to fade.

  Nezzil looked down upon their morning’s progress. Gargantuan slabs of rock cupped rivers of loose pebble that drifted away into a dizzying mix of hard grey and frosted bracken. Leagues away, the lower stony lands mixed with the deeper distant hills of the Topaz Sea. The dwarf squinted hard at the rolling mix of sun and shadow and felt his skin squirm with the touch of searching eyes. “Them trackers are still down there somewhere,” he announced. “Them and those stinking nasty lizards they ride.”

  Dindur nodded to Horik. “Gotta keep climbing. That ore could be worth it, I guess, if we can make weapons like them desert folks’ shields and swords.”

  Horik wrinkled his nose and turned around again. “Nothin’s better than what we already craft, Dindur. Gonna be an embarrassment for us when our master craftsmen have to prove it to you an’ Nezzil.”

  “Dunno. That one silver shield of theirs was impressive. Had funny runes all around its edge, and they had four of their folk guarding it.”

  “Beh. Guarding it? More like they were afraid of it. And when I tried to get a good glance they just got out of my way and kept repeating harfi or some nonsense like that. Whatever it was, it had a hole in the middle. Mebbe it’s just a wheel for pottery or grinding?”

  Dindur scratched his forehead with a dirty fingernail. “Had straps for holding and a curve for deflectin’. Was a shield to be sure.”

  Horik just shrugged.

  “What if their ore is better than ours? Be needing a new mine in a new holdfast down this Southern Range, wouldn’t we?”

  Horik snorted. “Gonna be Jarl Dindur, is it?”

  The dwarf stuck out his chest and grinned through a dusty beard. “Mebbe.”

  “Better hurry up with yer bag o’ rocks, Nezz,” Horik shouted. “Or yer future Jarl’ll be right pissed.”

  Still looking back, Nezzil’s grin froze as he caught sight of motion near the horizon. He pointed and thrust his words from his throat. “Not just trackers coming our way anymore. Looks like a whole column o’ their folk. Thousands, mebbe.”

  Dindur squinted hard. “Looks like their whole village is followin’ us now, Nezzil. Yeh, shouldn’t ‘a taken what wasn’t yers.”

  Horik laughed. “They’re five leagues away, at least. An’ it looks like they’re splitting up.”

  “No. That’s not the worst of it. Look above them,” Nezzil gasped.

  Horik’s laugh dried in his throat.

  All three dwarves blinked, and their jaws dropped soundlessly. Above the distant caravans, a creature, then two, emerged from the haze. Even this far removed, they could tell that they were enormous bat-shaped beasts.

  The columns of people were thin smudges against the rolling hills. As the creatures descended, flashes of purple light rolled across the land. Only the distance spared them the roar of explosions and the screams of victims.

  “It can’t be possible,” Horik whispered.

  “Drakes,” Nezzil’s voice crumbled. “Like from the Mysteries. Something horrible’s happened to wake them.”

  “What can they do?” Dindur squeezed the words out.

  “Nuthin’ good.” Horik began to climb again. “An’ we can’t do nuthin’ ‘cept get ourselves higher.” He tugged at Dindur’s sleeve. “Mysteries say they got sharp eyes. Let’s go.”

  Dindur grunted and pushed himself upwards towards the shadows that rested alongside the peaks.

  Nezzil watched columns of smoke erupt, rise, and writhe. The abhorrent vision kept him frozen while his companions moved away. Twice, the drakes passed close to one another and collided with a violence h
e could almost feel before returning to their butcher’s work. The columns disintegrated and melted into blossoms of violet flame and oily smoke. One of the drakes banked away to the northwest while the other settled amid the wreckage to feed.

  Nezzil’s stomach turned. There must have been thousands of Rajala—they called themselves that, didn’t they—panicking and dying in that distant caravan. Hadn’t the lifebane done the same to his kin?

  He sat down hard while his head spun. What had the Mysteries taught him as a child about the Drakes of First Dawning? He was a smith not a sage. He closed his eyes and squeezed memories from the hive of his brain. Like drops of honey, the runes of his earliest readings slowly emerged and shivered to life. The Mysteries proclaimed that the drakes hungered for the weave wherever it was found. They hunted the spark like insects hunted light. That’s why dwarves lived where the drakes could not reach.

  Nezzil looked towards his friends who were now far above, small in his vision like two mice on a stone platter. He patted the satchel of ore samples and considered the wisdom of leaving it behind. Looking back upon the wreckage of the Rajalan columns, he felt a flash of fear, a cloud of sorrow, and then rising anger. Had his theft of the ore angered them so much? Had they followed him because of what he took? Nezzil blushed with shame. They had been standoffish but peaceful towards the dwarves. They had pointed to themselves and said

  ‘Rajala’. Horik had tapped his chest and replied, ‘Thunderwall’.

  After that, communication had proven impossible. The sandfolk responded with only a few unintelligible words and then bowed nervously and made elaborate gestures. The dwarves nodded and shuffled away. Always at a distance, the riding lizards of the sandfolk seemed to be sniffing the air, flicking their tongues, and glaring at Horik’s group. The three dwarves were tolerated as they wandered carefully through the strange maze of tents while robed warriors with gleaming silver swords observed from a distance.

  Nezzil shook his head. He should have asked before taking the samples of ore that had been left lying about, but it was fear of their strange ways that kept him from approaching their smiths. Then curiosity drove him to sneak in and drop samples of ore into his leather bag. Ambition, too. Mostly ambition, he grudgingly admitted to himself. His anger rose. He had done them wrong and perhaps now they suffered for it. He could not abide their continued slaughter but what could he do?

  Nezzil jumped to his feet and opened the satchel. He grabbed his hammer and shook a few lumps of the silver flecked ore onto the stone. It had sparked promisingly when he first struck it days earlier. Surely there could be enough of the weave in the rocks to attract the notice of something sensitive, something that fed on it. Or, Nezzil admitted, perhaps he just needed to make the attempt before joining his friends and running for his life. The remaining drake was leagues and leagues away. Could an insignificant spark of the weave draw away a feeding drake? There was little chance that his gesture would actually make a difference to the Rajala, but he might make a difference for his own heart. He steadied his footing, tightened his grip, and swung anyway.

  Halfway through his swing, Nezzil recognized something odd about the stone they stood upon. The exposed side of the mountain shared the same dusty grey colour and silver flecks as the ore sample. Impossible, his mind winked just as the hammer struck.

  ***

  An immense vibration thrummed through the mountainside, driving Horik and Dindur onto their faces where they sprawled, stunned and deafened. When they were able to look down the slope, they saw a new swath of rock and dust sliding away in a grey torrent. As the breeze dispersed the dust, they rubbed their eyes clear and then their hearts dropped. There was no sign of Nezzil.

  “What in the Twelve…,” Horik swore as he swizzled a finger in his ear. “What happened?”

  “There!” Dindur cried out and pointed frantically.

  “You see Nezzil?”

  “No,” Dindur’s voice evaporated. “I see that.”

  With lazy flaps of its leathery wings, the beast far below and leagues away took to the air and began to close the distance.

  “Drake?” Horik’s voice scratched against the thin air. “Run! Hide!”

  Dindur attempted to move but his legs had turned to sponge, and his chest burned with the need for a full breath. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the creature. How could something so large be so relentlessly swift? Behind him, Dindur could hear the fading patter of Horik’s boots upon the stone. Below him, the thunderous slither of rock and the billowing tang of dust continued to settle. A few shreds of colour suggested where Nezzil might have been buried. Dindur tried to convince himself that there might still be hope for his friend. Cave ins were a risky part of dwarven life and dwarves prided themselves on being able to hold their breath for a long time in the dark, surrounded by stone. If he and Horik could evade the approaching monster then perhaps they could—

  SKARAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHHHHH. The mountain shook with the cry of the drake. It had crossed the leagues impossibly fast.

  Dindur looked on in horror as the ebony beast soared upward through the thinning air. Its eyes were purple gems, and its raw red mouth was stretching open. Flickers of purple flame danced in the dark of its throat, and its teeth were white fangs the size of spears. With every heartbeat, it drew closer to its newest prey, and Dindur shivered with helplessness.

  The drake flashed overhead. Dindur rolled onto his stomach and started to slide, but his eyes could not be pulled from what he witnessed next. Horik had drawn his axe and prepared to swing but the drake was upon him with furious speed. There was a brief cry, an explosion of blood, and then the beast thundered to a landing upon the stone.

  More rubble shook loose and Dindur’s descent continued to accelerate. Shaking his head free of panic, he managed to wedge his climbing pick into the stone. The sudden stop wrenched his shoulder but he did not cry out. Instead, a calmness began to flow through his body, cold and clear. He struggled to his feet to meet the drake’s advance. Poor, poor Horik. Dindur swore that he’d get in a swing for all of them before he was done.

  The drake tucked its wings and hunkered its head as it began to saunter towards Dindur. Its gaze sparked with dark entertainments and it swung its bulk sinuously from side to side, perfectly assured of its immortality.

  “C’mon, ye bugger!” Dindur brandished his pick and his voice shook. “I’ll clop that empty head open, I will.”

  The drake halted a good twenty paces from the dwarf. Even from that distance, Dindur could see his reflection dancing in the black gloss of its eyes. The drake raised his head and opened its maw, exposing shreds of meat, some gleaming metal, and a growing sphere of purple fire.

  “Oh, here we go!” Dindur warbled. And then he charged uphill as fiercely as his weakened legs could push him.

  The drake uncoiled its neck and the violet flames deep in its throat began to roil and expand. The wind whistled and whipped about Dindur as the beast sucked in every scrap of air to fuel its malice. He closed his eyes when he felt the heat bloom. Robbed of breath, Dindur staggered forward towards oblivion, striking blindly at empty space.

  A tremendous explosion sent Dindur skipping and skidding across the stone, his senses collapsing into a cacophony of dissident rebellion. His skin squeaked, his lungs crackled, his bones thrummed, and his ears shrieked a single note of pain while the rest of the world fell away. He came to rest as a smoky crumpled ball amid the wreckage of rock and rubble.

  Gradually, Dindur’s mind soaked up the single fact that he was, for the moment, still alive, and he wished it was not so. His body shook uncontrollably. When would the next blast cook the meat from his bones? When would talons pierce and scatter his gizzards? When would hot breath descend and fangs puncture and rend?

  Dindur’s senses pushed against their confused rattle. He became aware of the wind pulling on his cloak and chilling his skin. An aromatic stench, like a latrine being boiled, filled his nostrils. In a burst of courage, he flung his eyes open wide, drew
in a breath, and gagged. The rock pressed heavily against him and, as he tried to roll onto his back, his head spun, his ribs stabbed him in a dozen places, and his right leg throbbed from thigh to boot. He sipped smaller breaths of the thin air and waited for his shivering to fade. Instead, his tremors quickened as he lay helpless. Overhead, a delicate wisp of cloud skirted past and the blue of the sky seemed endless.

  Dindur looked at his hands. They were scuffed and bloodied. He flexed them without complaint and then gingerly pushed himself up. Only then did he dare to glance towards the doom awaiting him.

  The eyes of the monstrosity stared wide and black, its head slumped at an angle, its maw still yawning wide yet burnt and twisted. Its body was sprawled unmoving across much of the mountain face. The wind that gusted under the tips of its massive wings provided the only subtle movement.

  Dindur’s heart skipped with shock. Was this a trick of the drake? Or was this his own mind’s invention to ease his coming death? The dwarf’s eyes narrowed as he stared hard at the drake’s face. Unbelievably, there was no life left in the beast. There was no spark in its gaze, no shudder in its frame, no flame in the depths of its throat. But there was a glimmer of silver wedged between its fangs. Dindur looked closer and rising hysteria fueled a brief cackle. The round shape glimmered brightly, its edges encircled with runes. It had a shape for deflecting and a grip for holding. Then the pain from his ribs cut short all amusement and Dindur passed out upon the cold stone.