Dawncaller

by David Rice

  Her mind was an anxious whirlwind. Had she already entered Longwood? Would she be greeted peacefully as Tyrin made her hope, or with hostility? When she presented the fabled sword to the Elders, would they train her or reject her? Could she pass their tests when so many wanted her to fail? And what of her parents? Didn’t they get her into this mess, after all? Would the elves tell her where to find her mother? If she did find her mother, would she be accepted? Was her father still alive in Graniteside? If she rescued her father, would he be proud?

  Why was she doing this? Who was she doing this for?

  Would she ever find—herself?

  Memories of Helba and Raisha intruded. If she allowed herself to fail, at any point, would she ever be forgiven? Would she forgive herself?

  “No,” Kirsten cried out. She grasped her pendant as if it was Raisha’s hand, and squeezed as hard as she could. “Why won’t you talk to me?” she shouted. “Did that even happen?”

  The drakes had awoken. Did she even matter?

  The steady warmth of the pendant trickled through Kirsten, protecting her from the cold, but there was no other answer.

  “Come with me.”

  The low, silken voice startled Kirsten, and she writhed with goosebumps.

  Kirsten sprang to her feet and swirled away from the voice, using the tree as cover. It had been a male voice that seemed as familiar as a lost and malicious dream. Her stomach squirmed. There was no sign of the speaker and no tracks in the snow. Carefully, she raised Fahde to defend herself.

  She took a nervous glance over her shoulder as her feet began to creep backward. She should never have wandered so far from her friends.

  A sharp kick struck her in the sword hand before she could react. Fahde spun from her grasp and embedded itself in the oak, out of reach.

  A dark-haired elf appeared without a sound and struck her in the throat with the pommel of his sword. Kirsten stumbled backwards, gagging, while the elf strode casually towards the sacred sword, and grasped it with his free hand. The gem flared briefly only to dim once more.

  Kirsten spit away some blood and recovered her footing. She studied her attacker with a smoldering gaze.

  “Stay put, whelpling,” the elf growled. He sheathed his sword, grasped the hilt of Fahde in both hands, and pulled it free.

  The gem flared a second time and faded.

  “Impressive,” the elf commented.

  “Not so much,” Kirsten snipped. She cursed herself for not having her bow ready.

  The elf laughed despite his sneer. “A worthy blade requires a worthy master.” He lunged. Kirsten recoiled. The blade narrowly missed Kirsten’s shoulder but cut easily through the strap of her backpack. As the pack dropped behind her, it spilled open and Kirsten fell backwards upon it to sprawl defenseless in the snow.

  The elf was upon her in an instant, the tip of Fahde a finger’s width from her throat.

  “Less than useless,” he pronounced. His eyes widened, and Kirsten was certain he would kill her with an effortless thrust.

  A hammer sped through the air and collided with the elf’s head. Blood spattered in all directions, and the elf dropped to one knee and rolled away.

  Grumm!

  Kirsten forced her body into motion. She rolled the opposite direction until her knees and knuckles found purchase upon the snow-covered ground. Scrambling upright, her eyes darted in all directions. Grumm’s hammer lay half covered in snow. She could hear Grumm’s thick boots and heavy gasps thundering towards her. Her heart continued to pound when she realized that there was no sign of her sword.

  “Y’alright?” he shouted while closing the final steps.

  She stung in a dozen places but pushed that aside. “An elf! He’s still out there,” Kirsten warned. “He’s stolen the blade. Whoever he was, he’s taken Fahde.”

  “We’ll follow the bastard,” Grumm asserted while scooping up his hammer. He picked off a patch of grizzled hair that had caught on an edge and bellowed towards the thickening forest. “Ye forgot sumthin’ o’ yours, yeh thievin’ coward!”

  Kirsten’s heart dropped. “Grumm. He doesn’t leave any tracks. And he could kill us all. He had a bow.”

  Grumm pointed to Kirsten’s spilled pack. “So do you.”

  Shouts echoed through the trees, followed by shrieks and screams. Kirsten tore the wrapping from her bow and fumbled to ready its string.

  “Where’s Plax?” she asked.

  “Foraging. You think—” Grumm started.

  High pitched yipping raced through the frigid air. The sounds triggered another lost memory in Kirsten. Raisha’s fox called out like that once when it was hurt but this cry was almost human. She exchanged a swift glance with Grumm and, without hesitation, charged towards the chilling sound of panic and pain.

  Kirsten noted one set of prints in the snow and followed the trail. A clearing was ahead. As they closed in, the cries dropped towards groans and gasps.

  Grumm tugged on Kirsten’s sleeve. “I’ll go first,” he said. He didn’t wait for approval but burst into the clearing. Drops of dark blood were scattered through the snow and trailed towards a large maple. Grumm squinted to see past broken bramble. A slender form gradually resolved itself against the tree trunk. Grumm stopped in horror. It was Plax.

  The mottled elf feebly grasped two branches and dangled above a clutch of roots, pinioned to the tree with a sword through his abdomen.

  Grumm called out, “Kirsten! Over here. Quick!” and then rushed to his companion’s side to ease the weight pulling on the blade. “Easy, lad. We’ve got ye.”

  “Gug—ghhh,” was all Plax managed before spitting up a clot of blood.

  Kirsten dashed to Grumm’s side. She dropped her bow and pack, then paled as she absorbed the magnitude of Plax’s injuries.

  “We gotta get the sword free o’ the tree,” Grumm stated, “without makin’ the wound bigger.”

  Kirsten sized up the pommel. She did her best to steady her voice. “I’m taller than you. I can try pulling it out.”

  “I’ll move him at the same time, Lass, so you tell me when—”

  “—nuggh—” Plax responded with a blood-coated voice.

  Kirsten dried her hands then wrapped them carefully around the leather pommel. She took several quick, deep breaths and then grimaced as she pulled.

  “Now?” Grumm blurted and lifted Plax slightly. The elf was lighter than Grumm expected.

  “Yeah,” Kirsten grumbled as she tugged a second time. “Nowwww—”

  With a second effort, the blade released, and Grumm staggered forward holding Plax close, the stink of raw blood filling the air.

  Grumm’s lips pursed for a moment and his jaw hardened. Plax was now as limp as a fish and his eyes were rolling towards white.

  “I’ll put him down between us and we’ll have to pack the wound from both sides. Get whatever cloth you can spare, and strips long enough to tie off once the blade’s free.”

  Kirsten reacted quickly as if Helba herself had been issuing the instructions. Reaching into her pack, she withdrew a spare linen shirt and slashed it into strips with her skinning knife.

  The pile of bandages she created seemed entirely inadequate.

  Grumm thrust out a hand. “Gimme half.”

  Kirsten complied. “Want me to take the sword out now?”

  “Need sumthin’—hold’em—”

  Kirsten barely had time to grab Plax before Grumm turned to extract a vial from inside his mail vest.

  “What’s that?”

  “Special powder. Ev’ry dwarf carries a bit.”

  “It’ll save him?”

  Grumm sighed. “Nothing else will.” He sprinkled half of the faint yellow powder on his bandage and then half on Kirsten’s. “Get ready to pull that sword free and pack the wound right away, powder at the centre.”

  Kirsten struggled to balance herself. Tears tugged at the edges of her eyes.

  “You can do this,” Grumm whispered.

  Kirsten nodde
d.

  “Now!”

  The blade pulled free with a sucking sound, followed by a surge of blood. Kirsten tossed the blade to the snow and slapped the bandages hard against Plax’s stomach. They instantly blossomed deep red. Blood began to seep between her fingers then thickened to a cranberry coloured molasses.

  Grumm sighed again as he began wrapping Plax’s torso with thin leather strips. One by one he tightened them with his blacksmith’s fists, and tied them off.

  Kirsten sat back and pushed sweat drenched hair from her eyes. “Is he going to be—is that powder—” she stumbled.

  Grumm finished the last knot and began wrapping Plax in a thick blanket. His gaze met Kirsten’s firmly. “Couldn’t ha’ done it any better.”

  Kirsten’s heart surged and she turned away. She picked up the sword and wiped its blade clean. “I’ll find him.”

  Grumm’s lips tightened as several responses collided in his throat. “I don’t doubt it,” he finally managed to say.

  “I’ll give it back to him the same way he gave it to Plax.”

  Grumm nodded. “You sure there’s not a bit o’ dwarf in yeh as well?”

  Kirsten chuckled briefly then handed Grumm another blanket. “Use mine, too. Helba always said to keep the injured warm.”

  Grumm wrapped Plax until only his face barely emerged from its cocoon.

  “What now?” Kirsten shrugged. “He needs more help than we can give him.”

  Grumm secured his pack and his weapons. “You’re right about that. And we won’t be getting any help from Longwood so that only means one thing.”

  Kirsten stared westward towards the shadows of rising fur trees. “I wish Olaf hadn’t left.”

  “He had debts to settle, Lass. Can’t blame him.”

  “I guess we all have those,” Kirsten said. “It’s no good carrying him. Put Plax on my pony.”

  “But you have a bunch of your gear back at the campsite. On your pony.”

  Kirsten shrugged as she tied the sword to her pack and took up her bow. “I’m practically in Longwood already. Plax needs you to get him to a healer.”

  Grumm gently hefted Plax to his shoulder and then took a moment to stick out his chin and nod. “My kin are bound to be missing me by now. Be careful, Lass. I plan on finding you again. In one piece.”

  Kirsten flashed a brief smile. “You will.” Helba’s voice rose in her mind. “May the One bless your days and nights.”

  “Kan fjellen dele,” Grumm shouted as he walked away. “May the mountains always yield before you.”

  Kirsten swung away to disguise the blush rising in her cheeks. She took a deep breath. From this point, she would be alone. It was time to face the burgeoning woods and the challenges of her heritage. First and foremost, she had a sword to recover and a friend to avenge.

  XIV

  Jarl Beru stood on a hill recently stripped of trees and gazed across at the City of Smoke and Light. He looked to his companion, Thane Glandrew Haggisdrop, and smirked. “Those bastards’ll wish they spent less time makin’ it so pretty.”

  “I figger with all the gnomes stole from us, we should just about own the place free an’ clear by now,” Glandrew replied.

  “Ahhh, who’d want it?” Beru spat. “Our advance party should be back by now. I’d hate to have to knock their door down to return their goods.”

  Glandrew looked back at a freshly built stockade surrounded by twenty of his best warriors. Inside, a clutch of dishevelled yet still sparkly gnome engineers and artificers grumbled to one another.

  “They’ll be back. Their ransom will be a start.”

  Beru snorted and raised his voice. “If the gnomes don’t show up, we can just catapult them over the wall, one by one.”

  The gnome prisoners shuffled and blanched, whispered and swore. “Barbarians!” the best dressed gnome cried out.

  Glandrew and Beru shared a hearty laugh.

  ***

  Derby Glintwell adjusted his best tweed jacket and emptied the heavy sack onto the table. Gold and gems spilled out, gleaming in the lantern light.

  “Oh, Olaf,” Derby smiled. “You are my favorite nephew. Did you know that?”

  Olaf sat forward in the soft chair. “I trust that’s more than enough to settle accounts?”

  Glintwell donned a magnifying headset and examined the largest bauble. “Oh, yes. I think so.”

  Olaf sat back with a sigh. “Thanks, Uncle Derby. This really means so much. I never liked working for the—”

  Derby held out a finger. “You know my rule. Don’t say the name.” “

  Oops,” Olaf chuckled nervously.

  Glintwell kept examining the gems one after another until the silence stretched thin.

  “Can I go now?” Olaf ventured.

  Derby took off his magnifier and rubbed his eyes. “Shh. You never know who might be listening.”

  Olaf cast a nervous glance around the dark panelled room, then under the table next to him.

  Glintwell smiled. “Amazing quality, Olaf. You’ve really outdone yourself this time.”

  “Well, that’s very—” Olaf replied gingerly. “Thank you. So, I can go?”

  Glintwell chuckled. “Of course.”

  Olaf jumped a bit too eagerly to his feet.

  “Unless you’d like to hear of something really big.”

  Olaf stopped in mid-stride. “Big?”

  “Extremely,” Glintwell said. “Insane.”

  “Really?”

  “And considering I’ve just saved your hide, and that you are family—” Glintwell continued.

  Olaf cursed himself for sitting back down. “I’m always willing to help—family.”

  Glintwell reached into a desk drawer and withdrew a meticulously engraved medallion. He studied it briefly then tossed it into Olaf’s lap. “Wear that and take a stroll around the upper grounds of the Artificer’s Union. When you come back, tell me what you think.”

  Olaf stared suspiciously at the medallion. “I’m no artificer. If anyone—”

  Glintwell chuckled. “No one will bother you. Just tell me what you notice and then we’ll talk.”

  “Okay—” Olaf pocketed the medallion. “Do we meet back here?”

  “No,” Glintwell insisted. He carefully slid the treasures from the table and into a few plain leather bags. The bags disappeared inside Glintwell’s jacket.

  Olaf’s mouth opened to form another question.

  Glintwell jumped up and patted Olaf on the head. “I’ll find you tomorrow.” Olaf’s mouth was still open as his uncle left the room.

  “Oh, I’ve done it again,” Olaf whispered to himself.

  ***

  The gnome contingent was surprisingly small. Jarl Beru didn’t know whether to take offense or be amused.

  “That’s far enough,” Glandrew ordered when they were a rock toss distant. “Who’er you and what’s in the bag?”

  The gnome tugged at the lapels of his heavily ornamented jacket. “I am Underwriter Armitage of the Brinksmith Clan. Normally ransoms are never paid to outsiders but considering our leadership’s desire to re-establish better relations—”

  Beru’s smile widened but it did not reach his eyes. “Considering the harm you’ve brought upon my kin, I have a mind to sell you all back to yer families by the pound.”

  The Underwriter’s eyes widened and he took a step back. “Th—that was not part of the agreement.” He dropped the bag and backpedalled some more until he bumped into his associates.

  Glandrew walked up and poked at the bag with the point of a halbard. “Hardly looks like anything at all.” The thane reached down and spilled the contents of the bag onto the ground.

  “Just a mess o’ small gems, Jarl Beru.”

  The gnomes gasped with indignation.

  “What’re we supposed to do wi’ this?” Beru bellowed. “Buy a good cask o’ whiskey and drink to our lost kin? You bastards sold us all out to the lifebane, ye did. Have ye no shame?”

  Underwriter Ar
mitage straightened his back and hardened his voice, straining to remain cordial. “Those are sparkgems, Jarl Baru. They focus and store the power of the weave.”

  “So, yer saying they’re useful then?” Glandrew grumbled.

  Underwriter Armitage’s eyes sparkled. “They are priceless.”

  A darkness stormed behind Jarl Beru’s gaze. He approached the gnomes with a steadfast gait that promised retribution in each heavy step. To the credit of the gnomes, they did not run.