Dawncaller

by David Rice

  ***

  When Dindur awoke, the stars were bright and clear as crystals. His breath huffed instantly into tiny clouds of ice and he tried not to cough. His wheeze returned, and he knew he had to climb down to where the air was thicker before sleep took him again. He tried to spit but his mouth was as dry as the sand dunes waiting leagues below. He fumbled for his canteen to discover that both it and his backpack had been torn away in the explosion. He scanned the rockfall and spotted his belongings a bowshot farther down the slope, half buried in dust. Then he looked up. The drake’s corpse seemed to mock him. The beast had not been a trick of an air starved mind. His pick was wedged in the rock near the beast’s cracked jaw, and the silver shield of the Rajala beckoned to him as it glowed in the starlight.

  Dindur tried to stand but his leg buckled, and he only managed a scream. He twisted against the pain of his ribs to better examine his injuries. The thick wool of his pants was torn in patches, dusted with dirt, and sticky with blood. Dindur swore he could see fragments of bone in the gashes. He leaned back and gasped for enough breath to think. He’d need his pick to move any distance. And if he was going to leave this cursed mountainside, by the First Clan, he swore he’d better take that shield with him.

  Quivering against the cold, Dindur began pulling himself up the dusty incline one biting handhold and one fleeting foothold at a time. He stopped every few body lengths to catch what he could of his breath and to warm his bloodied fingers against his body. Then he screwed his face into a fist, whispered “Pebblemaw” or “Thunderwall” through clenched teeth, and pressed on.

  The light of a moon emerged from over the mountain peaks and bathed the scene in a ghostly haze. The drake’s form seemed to absorb the light except where it reflected off a fine gossamer of delicate ice that had formed along the edges of the beast. A second moon appeared, Dindur could never remember their names, and together they cast dual shifting shadows across the broken landscape. Dindur’s response to the moonlight was like any dwarf. Mountains not moons formed the bulk of his skies. This unwelcome illumination would reveal his helplessness to any predators who bothered to look. He felt panic fuel a renewed surge of energy. Would wolves or worse travel this high upon the mountainside?

  Beads of sweat burst forth and froze as he pushed himself ever harder towards the maw of the drake. When his hands finally fumbled and grasped the handle of his pick, he pulled as hard as he could until he was resting on the knee of his good leg, puffing like a spent goat. His head spun, his vision narrowed, and his torso quaked with shivering. He tried to pull his pick free of the rock, but he was too weak. His hands slipped from the handle and he fell face first to the stone with a frustrated cry.

  “Ah. Who am I foolin’,” Dindur wheezed. “If only Horik or Nezzil had made it, I’d still have a chance.”

  Inside the drake’s mouth, the wandering moonlight reached the shield. The shield erupted with a blaze of light that dazzled Dindur. Shielding his eyes and ignoring the pain, he used the pick as a foothold and pushed himself up to a crouch with the last of his strength. Now he was only a dozen paces from the drake. Could he muster the strength to crawl the remaining distance?

  A soft and wet sound from below made Dindur’s heart sink. He spun on his good knee and crumpled to the ground. His eyes sprung wide when he saw the monstrous lizard of the sandfolk a bowshot away. Twice it sniffed the air and expelled clouds of ice with impressive snorts.

  “Could this night get worse?” he whispered to himself and gave his pick one last tug. It stayed stubbornly wedged in the rock.

  Emerging from behind the lizard came a simply robed man with a look of abject awe upon his face. Slowly limping along behind him was Nezzil, cradling an arm that hung from a broken shoulder.

  The robed man uttered a brief command to the lizard and it lowered its bulk to the rock. Its eyes were almost as deep as the drakes, and it seemed to lap up the radiance of the moonlight reflecting from the shield. The man took to his knees and bowed profusely, whispering some unintelligible fragments of song.

  Nezzil continued to shuffle upward. When he was close to Dindur, he offered his calloused and blackened hand. “Didn’t feel like saving some o’ the fight fer me?”

  Dindur wheezed, chuckled, and winced all at once. “Thought we—were goners.”

  “I don’t see Horik.”

  “Drake got ‘im.” Dindur tried to say more but the words wouldn’t come.

  Nezzil looked away. “Didn’t expect that.”

  Dindur shot Nezzil a strange look and waited for a response.

  Nezzil pointed at the praying man. “Told ya we were bein’ tracked.”

  Dindur coughed and instantly regreted it. “How many?”

  “Dunno. Don’t think he means us harm. His lizard dug me out.”

  Dindur gave the creature a suspicious glance and then pointed at the gleaming shield in the drake’s maw. “We gotta get that shield and get down off this mountain. Air’s too thin.”

  Nezzil squinted. “That’s the shield we saw?”

  “Yep. An’ I think we’ve earned it.”

  Nezzil’s expression hardened. “No, Dindur. He just saved me life. We’re not gonna rob them. We’re givin’ the shield back.”

  “Whut?” Dindur pulled away and tried to stand on his own. “Not this dwarf.”

  “It’s the right thing to do,” Nezzil tried to explain. “It’s theirs. An’ if I hadn’t taken that ore they’da not followed where the drake could—”

  “Stop talkin’ nonsense. Get the shield.”

  “I couldn’t let the drake keep killing them,” Nezzil fumbled on. “I hadda do somethin’”

  “What?”

  “I gave that ore a good strike. Hoped for a few sparks. Maybe a distraction. I dunno.”

  There were some tears in Nezzil’s beard now. “Poor Horik. I didn’t know—”

  Dindur blinked. “You—you triggered that blast? You called that drake?”

  Nezzil shrugged. “They were bein’ massacred.”

  “By the Banefather,” Dindur swore. “That’s not our problem.”

  “Was mine.” Nezzil’s voice lowered. “Couldn’t really ask since you an’ Horik ran. An’ it seems the Drakes are everyone’s problem.”

  Dindur’s face twisted from more than just the pain. “Fine. You help me walk and we’ll get the shield together.”

  Nezzil relaxed with a sigh and pulled the pick from the rock. “Between us we got three legs and three arms. Sounds like more than enough to get that shield, eh?” He helped Dindur steady himself on one leg, and handed him the pick.

  Dindur just wheezed and grinned.

  “Then we get off this mountain before we pass out,” Nezzil added. He wrapped an arm around Dindur and took the dwarf’s weight. “Air’s even thinner here at night. Dunno what’s keeping us awake.”

  Dindur nodded towards the lizard rider who was still face down and chanting. “What’s he doin’?”

  Nezzil spoke in short bursts between gasps of breath. “I’m guessing killing that drake impressed these sandfolk a wee bit.” His eyes narrowed over a twisted smirk. “How’d that happen, anyway?”

  “Dunno,” Dindur puzzled. “Don’t squeeze the ribs so hard.”

  “Thin air here. Mebbe too thin even for it? Seen flames choke themselves off when they run out of air,” Nezzil suggested. “Mebbe that happened.”

  “Could be the shield deflected its fire right back down its throat. Bit o’ luck, either way,” Nezzil whispered.

  When they arrived at the drake’s mouth, Nezzil realized that he would have to climb inside to reach the shield.

  “Ueugh! That’s the worst smell I’ve ever—”

  “Set me down an’ get on wi’ it.”

  Nezzil obeyed, scrambled up the baked and broken flesh of its mangled jaw, and then squirmed between its largest fangs. “Gonna give this shield a few good kicks an’ hope that’s enough.”

  “Hurry up. I think I might pass out again,” Dindur wheez
ed.

  “Use yer powder,” Nezzil’s voice echoed from inside the beast’s maw. “I used mine on my shoulder an’ it’s feeling better already.”

  “Banefather,” Dindur swore again. “Stupid of me.” He unbuttoned a small pouch that had remained sealed since leaving Thunderwall. He carefully extracted an oilskin packet and unfolded the top. Reaching for his torn leg, he managed to sprinkle its contents in each of the bloody holes. His leg tingled uncomfortably while muscles quivered and grasped broken bones pulling them into place. Mercifully, his body filled with warmth.

  Above, Dindur could feel the drake’s jaw shake ever so slightly with each of Nezzil’s kicks. Abruptly, there was a loud crack, the reflected light dimmed and tumbled, and the shield clattered against the front fangs of the beast.

  “I did it,” Nezzil announced proudly.

  The light from the shield had steadied again. It was brighter now despite the moons creeping westward in the sky. Dindur shook off drowsiness and looked up to see Nezzil leaning over one of the shorter fangs. He held the shield by its leather strap and dangled it down towards him.

  “I figger they’ll be appreciative,” Nezzil smiled.

  Dindur’s jaw hardened and he reached for the shield with both hands and pushed hard to stand. His damaged leg filled with pain but did not fail. “Yer stupidity got Horik killed,” he growled and pulled down on the shield.

  Nezzil’s eyes widened as he let go. He stumbled back and rubbed his chest where the fangs had nicked the leather. “Clumsy ass. You coulda skewered me.”

  Dindur hobbled a few steps and sat down clumsily, still gripping the shield. “You’ve seen what it does. Our people need this for protection.”

  Nezzil squeezed between the fangs and dropped to the ground. “An’ you went on earlier about not taking what wasn’t ours.”

  “Drake brought it to us.”

  “Drake stole it from the sand folk. Now you’re saying we steal it, too?” Nezzil reached for the shield and Dindur pulled away.

  “Ah, c’mon. Dindur. I know what yer Pa would say if we kept it, an’ you know, too.”

  Dindur found himself shouting. “It’s the time of drakes! Look what they can do!”

  Nezzil softened. “I hear ya but it’s not right. An’ there’s no way. Look at the two of us. You want them to take it from us? If we thieve it, they’ll think all our kin are sour, they will. An’ if we try to fight, they’ll take it anyways, an’ pretty easy, too.”

  Dindur wheezed and coughed. “Ahh—”

  Nezzil pressed on. “Ye know what’s right.”

  “I hate sayin’ it,” Dindur stared at the sky.

  Nezzil offered Dindur a hand up. “Use yer pick to balance yerself. I’ll carry the shield down to that Rajala fellow.”

  Dindur grunted as he was pulled to his feet. His smile froze and he stared at Nezzil’s arm.

  “Yer bleeding.”

  “Whut?” Nezzil twisted to look at his elbow. A thin gash ran all the way to his shoulder and the cloth was matted with blood. “How’d that happen?” he whispered slowly and then sank to one knee. “Cut myself on a fang? So sharp it don’t even sting—”

  Dindur caught Nezzil as he fell, and together they crumpled heavily upon the stone. Nezzil started to gag as foam bubbled up from his mouth.

  Dindur scrambled away like a crab.

  Nezzil’s colour was turning purple. He tilted a wide-eyed stare towards his friend and sputtered, “Pow—pow—powder—”

  Dindur’s fingers fished through the small pouch he had already opened, hoping to find another dose. Of course, the pouch was empty.

  Nezzil’s eyes turned skyward and his chest began to convulse.

  Dindur choked on an angry sob. “Aww, no, Nezz! Hold on there. I’m sorry for pulling ya. I didn’t—”

  From below, Dindur heard soft footsteps racing towards them both. He pivoted to crouch behind the shield and its glow flared across the rock face.

  Bathed in the reflected moonlight, the robed Rajalan bowed deeply. “Harfi,” his voice quivered. Then the Rajalan snapped his fingers through the air in small circles and chanted a low musical phrase. For Dindur, the words began to strangely harden into a substance he could understand.

  “Craftsmen. Shield shapers. Drake slayers. Honour and peace. Peace and honour.”

  “Whut?” Dindur stumbled.

  “Heal.” The robed man pointed at Nezzil and then down towards the Topaz Sea. “Home.”

  Dindur leaned on both the shield and the pick, forcing himself to stand. He nodded northward. “Home’s that way for me.”

  The Rajalan wrinkled his brow and shuffled forward, extracting a pouch from inside his robes. “Heal. Home. Honour and peace.”

  Dindur realized that the robed fellow was trying to help Nezzil and he squirmed out of the way.

  “Help Nezzil? Yeah. Hurry.”

  The Rajalan flashed a grateful smile and chanted, “Trust is rain.” Then he extracted a whistle from another hidden pocket and blew a silent note. The lizard charged upwards towards his master with surprising agility.

  Dindur watched slack jawed as the Rajalan chanted over Nezzil’s body while rubbing a gummy substance over the wounded arm. Then with a twist and scoop of its wide nose, the lizard tossed Nezzil onto its back. The robed man bowed again. “Heal drake slayer. Come shield bearer.

  Home.”

  The hair on the back of Dindur’s neck rose. There was no way he could help. Nezzil had to stay with the Rajala. His friend was dead any other way he forged it. He had no choice but to believe the sand folk would do the right thing. And Dindur hated it.

  But go with the robed man? Stay with the Rajala? They’d want the shield back. Jarl Volsun deserved news of this. And his people could use the shield. Needed it more.

  Dindur shook his head. “Okay. Heal him. Be sure to know, I’ll be comin’ back for him, y’hear? An’ I’ll be bringin’ friends. But my home is that way, an’ that’s where I’m goin’.”

  An expression of surprise appeared in the robed man’s eyes that soon melted into disappointment and concern. Or perhaps it was pity. When the Rajalan finally spoke, his voice was low and sonorous. “Rajdejmion watch.” A pause. “Rajdejmion wait.”

  Fighting off a fatigue that clawed at his senses, Dindur grasped the shield tightly. A warmth issued from the grip that made his breathing easier and calmed his nerves. He began to limp away and each step vibrated pain up his leg. Each footfall landed with a pang of regret. It would be a long and lonely walk to Thunderwall. Rajdejmion Watch. Wait. What in the forge fire did that mean anyway? They were going to save Nezzil and, as thanks, he was going to steal their artifact?

  Dindur turned and drew a deep breath. To his great surprise, he realized that the shield was renewing his energy and sustaining his breath. He shouted after the Rajalan. “Why are you letting me take your precious relic?”

  The Rajalan turned, bowed, and responded with a voice pulled taut between awe and fear. “Rajala shamed. Eye of the One stolen. Traded to the qazam. Only harfi restore hajar karim to Almedef. Only Almedef and Fahde preserve world.”

  Dindur strained to understand the flurry of nonsense spouting from the Rajalan but his leg throbbed too much. Sounded like they were letting him take the shield after all. Maybe to repair it somehow? Fix that hole? But why give it to strangers? Could they not fix it themselves?

  As Dindur descended into the richer air, his heart pounded with exhaustion. He had a relic vital to defeating the drakes, and he would be presenting it to Jarl Volsun. And they had slain a drake! If these accomplishments didn’t prove his worth then what would? Dindur’s chest swelled with pride and surprise. The Bildugsroam was clear. The victor would be able to marry and father a new line, be granted a thane-ship, and help protect his kin. Why songs would be sung about this moment!

  Dindur gazed into the plains, towards the nearest human lands, and spotted thick plumes of smoke where none had been earlier. It was a time of war, not a time for sentiment. Thund
erwall needed the shield to defeat the lifebane. They needed the hope his tale would bring. Then there would be time for drakes, elves, humans, and gnomes.

  The young dwarf tightened his back, stiffened his neck, continued his march, and refused to look back.

  II

  Kirsten sat on a rock surrounded by snow and juniper bushes. She recognized the tracks of rabbits and foxes swirling about the gentle hillock, clues of a deadly chase before dawn that looked to an untrained eye like a playful game. Her chest panged as she remembered the simpler times of her childhood upon the farm. Raisha had a fox once, and a rabbit, and she loved to stand overlooking the sea and dance with the wind. She grasped the pendant around her neck and felt its familiar warmth.