Dawncaller

by David Rice

  Deven, Shaman of the Crystal Marsh Clan and traitor to the cause of Ulimbor’s lifebane, knew his people had to keep moving. Once more, he peered west across the hazy river where he knew the crazed All-father waited with his numberless horde of warriors and his cruel drake. They were too few to make a stand. And, even with the small chance they could win some trust from the horsewardens, Ulimbor’s drake would destroy them all. The second dawning of the world had arrived. With it, the prophecies stated, all would be wiped clean to begin again. Deven struggled to maintain his composure. The sun would still shine upon his world but his people would no longer be here to see it.

  Would anyone? Devon looked back towards the camp. They were nearly packed for the long ride east, and to avoid the mud they would have to leave now. But where would they go first? If they could win the confidence of the horsewarden Nerrod then perhaps they could save some of his people. But Ulimbor wanted to destroy the elves to the south most of all. Longwood would have to be warned again. Deven faced south towards the heavy forests. They had sent a messenger to Longwood once before and he had not returned. Should more make the effort this time? Could he afford to divide his clan?

  A familiar voice sounded behind him. “You face looks like it’s been pinched by a bear.”

  Deven turned to regard his daughter, Rybaki, with a look of patience that had been drawn too thin. Behind her trailed four warriors of the clan, and a proud figure atop a tall horse whose shining coat was etched with bright scars.

  “I see you have brought the horsewarden,” Deven said.

  “Your prisoner, you mean” Nerrod spat. “I will not succumb to your tricks.”

  Devon scowled at his daughter. She was a resourceful shaman in her own right, respected among the clan, perhaps even capable of leading one day, but her current plan for the horsewarden was asking too much. Still, Deven waffled, the times demanded something new from everyone.

  Tight lipped, Rybaki forced a smile. “Father, both our guest and his stallion have been healed. I felt he might appreciate our position if he was able to meet with you.”

  Deven nodded. “Come down off your horses and form a circle with me.”

  The accompanying warriors nudged Nerrod towards their gathering, and his eyes blazed with hatred with each step. Deven pointed to one of the flat stones that formed a circle around a small firepit. “Please sit. We all share the earth. Take some refreshment when it is passed to you.”

  Deven remained standing. “Liars. Thieves. Murderers. I will take nothing from you.”

  Rybaki sat. She nodded at the other warriors to sit as well. Deven sipped mead from an ornate jug and passed it to his daughter. She took a small sip and passed it to the closest warrior once he lowered himself to the stone. When the jug was held out to Nerrod, he turned his head away and spat into the dirt.

  “We saved your life, and the life of your horse,” Rybaki scolded.

  “Tricks to turn me from my people.” Nerrod hissed. “You waste your efforts.”

  Rybaki took a deep breath, met the horsewarden’s gaze, and spoke low and clear. “I thought horsewardens understood how to accept a kindness. How to be honourable.”

  Nerrod’s face twisted. “You butchered and burned my family. My village. My home. That is all you have ever known how to do. I will not be twisted by your gifts to betray my people.”

  Deven nodded. “We did not participate in any attacks against your people. Those who destroyed your family are led by a madman. He has also killed many of his own to further his own power.”

  “Lifebane are lifebane,” Nerrod responded. “Better dead.”

  Rybaki huffed. The warriors in the circle tensed, their eyes hard and dark. She shook her head firmly and the warriors did nothing more.

  “No, brave horsewarden,” Deven soothed. “My clan opposes Ulimbor’s cruelty just as you do.”

  Nerrod almost laughed. “I have never heard of the lifebane rebelling against their own. Where are the other clans of lifebane and their resistance? Lifebane kill all who oppose them. Everyone knows this.”

  “We haven’t killed you,” Rybaki interjected.

  Nerrod opened his mouth to respond but Deven held up his hand. “Twenty of the strongest clan leaders fought against Ulimbor. We represented most of our people and we realized that all of the All-father’s actions for centuries have done nothing but nurture ruin for all.”

  “And what happened? Why are you here? Did you run away?” Nerrod scoffed.

  Deven stood and raised his staff. Swirling from the embers, an image formed that danced before them all. In its cloud of sparks, the tragic conflict with Ulimbor played out in miniature. “Ancient texts had enlightened a few of us. We feared that Ulimbor’s actions would trigger another disaster. We were ready to change the cruel course of our history and better live as servents of the One.”

  Nerrod watched as an exchange of sparkfire killed several, and then seemed to imprison Ulimbor.

  “But his trickery surpassed us all.” Despite a quiver, Deven’s voice held firm. “We had only guessed at his maddest plans. We never believed he meant to raise the drakes. We never thought he would be mad enough to believe that he could control such forces.”

  The image played out the remaining moments of the tragedy. Ulimbor freeing himself, and then calling the drake to destroy the strongest survivors. In the maelstrom, a tiny copy of Deven blinked away to safety.

  “This Ulimbor commanded a drake to destroy my clan,” Nerrod hissed. “Why did he not destroy you?”

  Deven scowled. “Understand this, horsewarden. We are more alike than we realize. I would rather have died that day alongside so many more worthy, but my friend, our leader, Peren, insisted that I save at least one clan from his clutches. To continue the fight. The Clan of the Crystal Marshes.” He gestured towards the others in the circle.

  “You ran,” Nerrod stated.

  Deven’s eyes flashed. “Your people need to be warned before it is too late. All people need to be warned about what is coming.”

  “So they can run?”

  Rybaki’s eyes flashed. “So they can prepare,” she shouted.

  Nerrod’s head tilted and his speech slowed. “So. You healed me because you want to let me go. You want me to warn the horsewardens to the east.”

  “Yes,” Deven sighed. “You could unite the horsewardens. Fight together. Even fight alongside us if you choose. Or there would be no dishonour if you sought safety in the dwarven mines where the drakes cannot reach you.”

  Nerrod’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, ho! I see your plan now. You’d let me lead you to every horsewarden village where you could call your master’s drake down upon us all? You should kill me now. I will never betray my people.”

  Rybaki rolled her eyes. “If that was the plan, rubblebrain, it would only work the first time. Then you’d either be dead or maybe you’d have figured out the pattern?”

  Nerrod glared at Rybaki as she chuckled. The other warriors smirked but said nothing.

  “We have lived too long, too foolishly and too wastefully, butchering one another. Our fate demands that we become wiser. You should leave now. Warn your people,” Deven insisted. “We will not follow.”

  Rybaki’s expression turned serious once more. “Then you’ve decided, father?”

  Deven sighed. “Yes. We must depart before Ulimbor discovers us. At least with such numbers, the mud will hinder his speed far more than it will bother us.”

  Rybaki stood and was joined by her warriors. “It is Longwood, then?”

  “Yes,” Deven announced. “Longwood. To warn our—,” he paused as he considered this new word, this new concept, “—brethren, and stand with them if we must.”

  Rybaki sighed. “To Longwood then. I will prepare our scouts.”

  As she marched away, Rybaki worried that her father’s choice, as laudable as it was in principle, would result in them fight two enemies, the enthralled horde chained to Ulimbor’s cause by fear, and the Longwood elves who saw them as
a vile scourge, a mistake of the One.

  Perplexed, Nerrod watched the lifebane leave him staring at a barren circle of stones. His horse, Sakhlyn, moved closer and nibbled at his coat pocket.

  “So, I can just go? Now?” Nerrod asked the silence. Sakhlyn nudged him into action. Soon, he was riding away from the misty hillside. He would take a winding path to the next village and be sure that he could not be followed.

  XXXVI

  Bunmor always went back for seconds especially when it was someone else’s turn to cook the stew. He swabbed at the last of the thick gravy with a final chunk of biscuit and then, to be proper, he licked his fingers clean.

  The company of dwarves was settling in for the night, a carpet of stars blazing above, tidy tents and small fires set below along the tree line. Through gaps in the pine, the rising moons cast their pale glow upon the rolling prairies of the human realm. Grumm sat down beside Bunmor, burped once, and sighed contentedly.

  “Three days should do it,” Grumm stated. “Are ye looking forward to seeing Thunderwall after all this time?”

  Bunmor grinned. “It’s been a right good Bildugsroaming! We reclaimed The Crossing, we’ve driven the gnomes from our lands, and we’re returning with a real prize in that blue gem.”

  Grumm nodded. “Be good to see this through.”

  Bunmor laughed again and swatted Grumm on the shoulder. “You’ll woo that Haggisdrop lass, fer sure.”

  Grumm blushed and then drove it away with a scowl. “She’s nah fer me. Her Da, Glandrew, hates me an’ my family.”

  “But she gets to pick when the time is ripe, not her father,” Bunmor added. “So just keep yer hope, Grumm. When it comes down to it, that’s all we got.”

  Grumm chuckled. “Mebbe she’ll pick you? Is that what yer hoping for?”

  Bunmor made a face. “Too young fer the responsibilities. Yet.”

  “Yer three cycles older than me,” Grumm grinned.

  Bunmor’s expression turned serious. “But Grumm, everyone knows all the Rockbottoms are born old.” Seeing his friend’s discomfort, he burst out laughing once more.

  From inside their tent, Olaf’s whisper pierced the mood. “Grumm? The gem’s acting funny.”

  Grumm and Bunmor shot to their feet. Grumm stuck his head inside the tent flap while Bunmor kept watch. “Shush, now. Whatta ye mean, funny?”

  Olaf lifted the flap of the pouch just enough for Grumm to see its veiled blue light flicker and wane. He stared for a moment and then grumbled at the gnome, “Put that away before ye scare someone.”

  Olaf rewrapped the gem in its cloth and secured it deep in the pouch. “It’s been feeling warm and then cold, too.”

  Grumm’s scowl deepened. “Well, you tell me if it starts growing icicles or sets you on fire.”

  Olaf smiled weakly and nodded. Grumm stepped away from the tent and spoke quietly.

  “Bunmor, I think we should be ready to move just in case there’s trouble.”

  Bunmor’s shoulders slumped. “Ahh, I was afraid you’d say that. An’ I was just about to take my boots off.”

  “Might be nothing,” Grumm added. “Should mention it to the rest of ‘em, though.”

  “Nah,” Bunmor repied. “We set watches. Let the rest of ‘em relax. They’ve earned it.” Grumm rubbed his chin. “I’ll take first watch then.”

  Bunmor smiled. “Sounds good to me,” he said and began to tug at his boot laces. “That stew’s gonna make me snore tonight.”

  “You’ll be the only one who sleeps,” Grumm half-joked.

  “It’s a kindness I provide to keep the bears away,” Bunmor replied with a smile. Then he disappeared into their tent.

  ***

  Grumm cursed himself for almost dozing off. He jumped to his feet when he heard the flurry of wings followed by muffled cries from the other dwarves on watch.

  “Get up!” Grumm bellowed. His voice carried through the pines like a thunderstroke. Tents exploded into frantic contortions as soldiers raced to grab their weapons. The first dwarves to appear had ignored their armour in favor of speed. They raced to form a semi-circle near the cooking fire, their boots unlaced and helms unbuckled, and their axes or hammers held high.

  Grumm reached into the tent and pulled Olaf from his bedroll. “Get yer bow,” he commanded, “an’ be ready to follow me.”

  “What’s the problem?” Bunmor grumbled loudly. “Ahh, meh foot’s swelled an’ I can’t get on me boot.”

  Looking up, Grumm could see several black winged shadows rip overhead. Thornwings, he swore.

  Grumm swatted the tent’s side with the flat of his axe, catching Bunmor on his rear. “Cut the sides o’ the boots if ye have to but get them on. It’s a brood o’ thornwings.”

  Bunmor popped from the tent, wide-eyed, hefting a large sack and wielding a silvered axe. “What brought them? Was it the food? What’ll we do?”

  Grumm frowned. We’re gonna run along this tree line. I spotted an outcropping of rocks a bit higher up the hills. If we’re lucky, it’s a cave we can defend.”

  “But our friends,” Bunmor pleaded. “We can’t leave ‘em.”

  Grumm shook his head. “There’s thirty of them an’ just three o’ us. You heard Beru. That gem gets to Thunderwall no matter what.”

  Clan battlecries, curses, and the shriek of savage carrion birds filled the night behind them. Bunmor looked back to the campfire where a furious melee circled. It was a mad dance between a platoon of half-dressed dwarves and at least ten thornwings.

  “Olaf, you run behind me and keep low,” Grumm directed.

  Olaf bit his lip and nodded. “I’ve run from worse,” he tried to bluff.

  “Bunmor,” Grumm shouted. “We gotta go now while there’s a distraction.”

  Bunmor stood a bit taller and shook his head. “You two go. I have ta do this.” With a whoop that shook the pines, Bunmor crashed down the hill and smashed a circling thornwing to the ground.

  “Stubborn fool,” Grumm swore. He took a deep breath and began to run for the rocks, his legs pumping like pistons in the Thunderwall mines. Olaf’s lighter steps were right behind him.

  As they reached the deeper shadows of the outcropping, the sounds of blows and shrieks of the murderous birds were slowing. Grumm thrust Olaf into the mouth of the cave, and risked a glance downhill. His chin quivered and his eyes teared up when he recognized Bunmor’s body

  atop two fallen thornwings.

  At least a dozen dwarves had fallen. Around their bodies lay the twitching wreckage of the razorwinged birds. The brood had not been driven away. There were still ten or more circling above and preparing to swoop down to claim their bloody feast of friend and foe alike.

  Below, the dwarves wiped sweat from their eyes and taunted the birds to come down with the proudest and roughest words Grumm had ever heard. It filled his heart to breaking and he took a step downhill, away from the cave.

  “The gem,” Olaf cried out. “It’s hot!”

  Grumm cursed as he turned to face the gnome. “What in the twelve?”

  Olaf had tossed the pouch upon the floor of the cave where tendrils of smoke curled from underneath its leather folds.

  Spiraling close atop the heat of the slain, the thornwings stiffened and drew suddenly upward, a cacophony of shrieks erupting from their blooded beaks and, in an explosion of black feathers, their circling brood shattered to flee in all directions.

  “Whatever it is,” Grumm’s voice boomed towards the survivors, “Run! There’s shelter up here!”

  A few of the dwarves recognized the wisdom of Grumm’s command and began a frantic scramble up the slope. Others, winded, stunned, or dazed by wounds, stumbled about gaping at their dead.

  Crossing the crest of the mountains above, a winged silhouette appeared, so black that it seemed to eat the starlight as it flew overhead. Grumm’s heart dropped. He had seen one before at a great distance. This one was much closer. A drake.

  “Hurry!” he yelled down to his friends. “An’
don’t look back.”

  “What is it?” Olaf ‘s voice almost failed.

  “Get to the back o’ the cave, an’ the gem, too,” Grumm spat. He stayed at the cave mouth spurring on his brothers.

  Olaf scrambled to recover the smoking pouch. Small holes had been burned through the leather where a blue light now blazed with piercing cold. “There’s a tunnel back here,” Olaf announced.

  “Good. We’re gonna be needing it.” Grumm grabbed the first of the dwarves by the arm and boosted him towards safety. A second dwarf arrived, huffing and puffing, and a third, a flap of skin torn from his cheek and his beard crusted with blood, stopped to help a fourth make it the final few steps.