The Hammer of Fire

by Tom Liberman

  Brogus moved passed Milli to the front of the little cave and began to wave his arms up and down although for some time it proved impossible to tell if the riders noted or not. After a bit of this, Milli gave him a long white cloak, another item stolen from the first band of nomads, to wave. It was surprisingly lightweight for its strength and she was eager to know the secrets to its weave.

  “My arms are tired,” said Brogus after long minutes of waving.

  “They see us,” said Petra. Despite her age, her eyes were as sharp as a young girl’s and well experienced at judging distances and objects. “They’ve broken into two groups. One continues in the same direction and the second heads towards us.”

  “That’s it then,” said Brogus and stopped waving his arms and rushed back into the cave to put on his armor and grab his weapon. “Dol, are you ready?”

  Dol nodded his head and smiled as he felt the heat of the hammer handle spread through his hands.

  Petra watched as the little clouds of dust coalesced into shapes, then to a group of riders, and finally into individual horsemen. Their gear appeared similar to the first group although this band had a short banner that snapped in the stiff breeze brought on by the speed of their horses. The dust obscured her vision but an occasional glimpse convinced the witchy woman that it depicted a black horse on a sandy background. In the end she badly misjudged the tremendous speed of the horses by their apparently slow approach because before she fully realized it they were suddenly close by and the pounding sound of their hoof beats sounded like thunder.

  All of the horses suddenly pulled up twenty yards short of the little cave although neither Petra nor Milli saw anyone give any sort of signal to indicate a halt. One horse, a spirited animal, gray in color with black eyes, broke off from the group and headed towards them. It was guided by a rider cloaked in the lightweight, yet sturdy material they now wore themselves. A thin piece of cloth, apparently the same material, covered his nose, mouth, and chin, although his piercing blue eye were easily apparent as he looked them over. He said something in a strange language and Milli held up her hand in what she hoped might appear a peaceful gesture.

  The rider spoke again and his hand went to a curved blade at his side.

  “We are strangers and do not speak your language,” said Milli, her high-pitched Halfling voice sounding clear and crisp in the hot desert air. “We come to see the Black Rider.”

  The man looked down from atop his tremendous horse. The thing almost seemed to breathe fire to Milli and she could hardly give credence to the idea that this was a similar species to the mule she rode not so long ago. It was heavily muscled in the chest but lean in the flanks with long legs and a regal, aloof look in its eyes. The man aboard it said something in that strange language and then pulled off the cloth that covered his face.

  He stared at the pretty Halfling girl for long seconds as neither of the two averted their gaze. Then he suddenly smiled with shining, white teeth and laughed. He leaned back on his mount and shouted something to one of the other riders who immediately dismounted and began to rummage under his cloak as he walked over.

  The newcomer bobbed his head and similarly pulled the cloth from his face and also removed the wide brimmed hat from his head which proved to be bald as an egg. Milli noted he was rather short and a bit round around the middle although hardly fat. He said something to the girl and although his tone was pleasant she could still not understand him. Eventually he pulled a little silver amulet out from one of the many compartments apparently hidden in the cloak and slipped it over his head, “Can you understand me now?”

  “Yes, yes I can!” said Milli with a bright smile and actually jumped up and down a few times. “Can you understand me?”

  The nomad nodded his head, “Indeed I can, little girl. Is this your daughter?” he said with a look at Petra.

  The old woman threw back her head and laughed aloud, “You’ve never seen a Halfling before?”

  The chubby man jerked his head back and opened his eyes wide. Then he turned at looked at Milli more closely. “Why, I’m terribly sorry, young lady. We do not have many of your race here in the Sands but I know they live in Tanta by the Sea. Will you accept my apology?”

  Milli folder her arms across her chest and frowned, “I suppose.”

  “Please forgive my rudeness but we were quite surprised to see such as you here in the southern territory. I am Manetho, can I offer you and your friends sweets? Coffee or tea?” he said and looked back to the horsemen behind him. “These visitors are now guests of the Black Horsemen. Prepare for a midday supper.”

  With these words the nomads immediately dismounted and began to unpack all manner of equipment from their steeds. From one little bag came long sticks, somehow collapsed upon one another that unfolded into supports for a heavy piece of material that was set as a barrier to keep the sand out. Within in a few more seconds they set up a little table with cushions and before Milli could even protest, Manetho took her by the arm and led her to the makeshift shelter. “You look touched by Ras,” he said and pointed to her sunburned skin. “We have a salve that will help with that although I do not carry a large quantity of it.”

  “Wait a moment,” interrupted Milli and turned back to the cave. “There are two more of us in the cave. Warriors. We feared you might attack as did the others.”

  “Farriders?” said Manetho with a little smile.

  “I’m sorry?” said Milli shaking her head.

  “Have you not heard of the Farrider nomads?” said Manetho. “You wear their cloaks and symbols. They are the sworn enemy of the Black Horsemen. We are to kill them on site. It is lucky we recognized that you were foreigners or we would have slain you.”

  “The Farriders tried that,” said Milli. “But, I have your word that we are safe in your care? My companions will not want to exit the cave without such assurances.”

  “You are not familiar with the ways of the nomads of the Sands then,” said Manetho. “I have declared you my guests and no harm will come to you if I can prevent it.”

  Milli looked at the chubby man for a moment and saw his plain smile and heard the earnest tone in his voice, “I trust you, Manetho. I am Milli. This is Petra and Dol and Brogus wait in the cave. I will get them.”

  “You have strange names, Milli,” he said rolling the word in his mouth but doing a good job of pronunciation. “Dol … Brogus. They do not roll easily from the tongue. Where are you from?”

  Petra looked at the nomad for a moment, “I’m from the northern lands near Das’von. We met while traveling in the region and I think they are also from that area although I’m not completely certain.”

  “I know of Das’von,” said Manetho in a suddenly quiet tone as the nomads around him also stopped their work and looked at the two. “There are rumors of that great city even here in the Sands. I have declared you guests but I must warn you that such an affiliation might be sorely looked upon by my brothers.”

  “We are not representatives of Das’von,” said Petra although the sound of the city’s name again caused the nomads to glance at the duo and murmur amongst themselves. “We have come seeking a region of five volcanoes. We are on a quest.”

  “Volcanoes?” said Manetho with a scratch of his chin. “There are no volcanoes in this area although the green lands south of here, Shandoria, are rife with them according to tradesmen. I do not know of an area with five but we can consult the traders and they might be able to help you find this place.”

  At that moment Dol, Brogus, and Milli emerged from the cave. The two dwarves were still in full armor and carried their weapons at the ready while Milli smiled broadly and waved at Manetho, “They are a bit nervous. I don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.”

  “Warriors of the Temin,” said Manetho at the sight of the two dwarves.

  Dol and Brogus looked at one another but said nothing.

  “Are you not from the grand mountain Temin where your kind resides on our western border?” a
sked Manetho.

  Dol shook his head and Brogus replied, “No, we are from the north.”

  “Ahh,” said Manetho with a shake of his head. “The only dwarves around here are those of Temin, the Kingdom of the Mountain. Nevertheless, you are welcome in our camp. I am Manetho and we are your hosts. Milli here has told me you are on a quest for the volcanic lands to the south. We might be able to direct you there. And, we owe you a gratitude for slaying Farriders. It was your axe and hammer that achieved this I assume?”

  “And my knife,” said Milli pulling out a little dagger and smiling.

  “The women of your land fight as well?” said Manetho. “This is good. Our woman fight alongside the men and you will soon see that our little company has two of fair sex,” he indicated with a gesture towards the nomads who continued to set up the camp.

  Milli looked closely and did see two smaller figures among them and the way they moved beneath the strange material did seem more feminine. “We slew four of the Farriders but allowed one to go free after we captured him. We were not well equipped to handle prisoners.”

  “Alas,” said Manetho with a shake of his head and a little frown. “We sell prisoners to the Golden Worm for a high price.”

  “The Golden Worm?” said Brogus, suddenly interrupting the conversation as he came over and hooked his axe to his belt.

  “Come,” said the chubby nomad as he looked over to the now finished campsite. The screen blocked off the intensity of the noonday sun but allowed through ample light to see a flat table, resting on the ground and somehow pieced together like a puzzle, soft cushions for seats, a dozen little bowls filled with strange fruits and vegetables that Milli did not recognize, and even little glasses with a milky liquid inside. “Come, eat, drink. Then we will discuss other matters.”

  Manetho introduced the four other nomads to the group, two men and two women, but Milli quickly lost track of their names and the fact that only the chubby wizard with his strange amulet understood them and only his words had any meaning to them, quickly forced him to become the center of the impromptu little feast. Milli found that she enjoyed much of the food, while Petra spent a great deal of time watching the cooking methods of the desert nomads and seemed to manage some level of communication as she learned.

  The eating, drinking, and small talk went on at a leisurely pace and soon the high noon sun began to descend which brought out lengthening shadows but little in the way of relief from the heat. Manetho gave her a vial of strange smelling solution that she rubbed onto her sunburned face while Dol, Petra, and Brogus did the same. The little amount barely sufficed but Milli did feel an easing to the burning sensation, although, perhaps it was merely her imagination.

  Eventually the nomads began to pack up the camp, leaving the screen and seating cushions for last and only then did Manetho broach the subject of the Black Rider and Das’von. “You are from Das’von,” he said to them although he looked carefully at Dol and Brogus as he used the name of the great city. His round face seemed suddenly sharper and his blue eyes narrowed.

  “No,” said Brogus. “We are from a citadel not too far away from the city named Helmhigh.” This was the name the dwarf caravans always used when dealing with the other races to avoid the mention of their true home.

  “And you are in the Sands to find five volcanoes?” asked Manetho.

  “Yes,” said Dol suddenly perking up and paying attention. “Five volcanoes right next to one another along the sea.”

  “I will take you back with us to our encampment,” said Manetho, “and our tradesmen might be able to help you locate this place. However, there are many rumors about Das’von here in the south and about a man named Corancil. Do you know anything about this?”

  Dol nodded his head, as did Brogus, although Milli and Petra kept silent. The four nomads finished packing away the material of the camp and then simply lay down on the hard earth and seemed to nap.

  “We do know a little,” finally ventured Milli with a small smile.

  “You will tell me?” said Manetho and it seemed a question rather than a statement although the good humor of their recent dining experience seemed but a distant memory in the suddenly highly charged atmosphere.

  “He is a powerful conqueror. We’ve been told he is assembling an army to invade the southern lands,” but that is really about all we know,” said Milli with a shrug of her shoulders. “We were only in Das’von for a little while.”

  “And now you are in the Sands. I believe the distance between these two locations is beyond calculation. When were you in Das’von?”

  The four looked at one another before Milli finally answered, “Five days ago.”

  The nomad blinked slowly and said nothing for a long time.

  “It was magic,” said Brogus.

  “So I would imagine,” said Manetho.

  “We used some portal thingy,” continued Brogus.

  “You did this on your own?”

  “No,” said Brogus. “A mage helped us. We promised to reward him once we completed our mission.”

  Milli sat silently.

  “I see,” said Manetho. “Well, it is much for me to think about. We are currently on patrol. The main encampment is too far for you to reach on foot. I will send a rider back for horses once the heat of the day passes us. We might have to wait several days. In the meantime you can regal me with stories of the northern realm and perhaps all you know of this Corancil and his armies.”

  “We never met him,” said Brogus with a shrug although Milli remained silent. “Helmhigh keeps mostly to itself. We don’t know much about the rest of the world.”

  Petra spoke next, “I probably know the most about Corancil but even that is not much. I’m a witch woman and I’ve traveled about the area more than a bit. Das’von is the oldest city in the northern realms and was ruled by a dwarf warlord since I was a little girl. Rumors started about three of four years ago about some armies from the middle-lands. There are supposedly some tall mountains and wide lakes in the middle of the northern states but I do not know if that is true. Corancil came from those with his armies. He conquered Das’von and Stav’rol in great battles. He supposedly has trading treatises with the cities on the eastern shore, especially Sea’cra. They are traders on the ocean, sea-going men.”

  “We know these Sea’cra traders,” said Manetho. “Their vessels reach the City by the Sea, Tanta, and from there goods reach us nomads. They are weaklings in the city, living in their brick homes, away from the stars, the sun, the sand. These are things that make a man strong. If this Corancil thinks to invade the southlands then he must deal with the Black Horsemen, the strongest of the nomad tribes. He will not be able to defeat us. Have no fear. You are safe.”

  “The armies of Corancil number in the tens of thousands,” said Milli with a gesture of spreading arms. “We stayed in a camp outside of Das’von.”

  “These matters bear much thought,” said Manetho. “I am not the one who can make important decisions. Rest now, it is the peak of Ras, we will send the patrol on without us and wait. Then I will take you to the Black Horseman and he will decide what is to be done. Rest now.”

  Chapter 11

  Two hundred tents covered the scrub plains around the shallow lake. The greatest density clustered along the eastern shore although small groups and isolated tents of all shapes and sizes popped up along the shoreline like little bunches of flowers. Their awnings displayed all the colors of the rainbow and thousands of people, horses, camels, and other strange beasts meandered between them as the shouts of street hawkers and the screams of children echoed back and forth. A weather beaten nomad wearing riding gear and walking his horse carefully through the throng looked neither to the left or right but made a direct line towards the center of the tent city. The scarf that partially covered his face hung loosely and his deep brown eyes stared out above a hawk-like nose. As he neared the center of the tents a young boy, not yet in his teens, dashed out and took the reins of his horse from
the man and then led the great steed off to the north.

  The boy took the horse out past the tent city and towards an open field in the distance where hundreds of the powerful beasts frolicked with one another. Meanwhile the man continued his journey towards the center of the encampment and towards a large black tent that seemed to suck in the colors from those around it. He approached the entrance a few moments later and two tall nomads, both faces pock-marked from the blister disease that took the lives of so many nomads, wearing long scimitars at their sides and unsmiling mouths on their faces greeted him with a nod of their head. They made no move to impede his entrance. He ducked into the tent without a word and made his way to a low table where a tall darkling with purple eyes sat behind a wooden desk on a chair of the same material. He barely glanced up as the weather-beaten nomad entered the room, peeled the mask from his face, and stood before the table.

  The darkling took a few more notes with a feather quill, scratching strange symbols on a piece of parchment, set it down, and after a final pause looked up at the nomad, “Report.”

  “I am from Manetho’s patrol of the Farrider border. We encountered a group of northmen hiding in a cave. They slew a Farriders patrol and stole their equipment and a horse,” said the nomad in a steady voice as he looked directly into the dancing purple eyes of the man behind the desk.

  “Northerners, you say?” said the darkling as he reached over and picked up the quill for long enough to dip it in an inkpot, and then he leaned back in his chair. “In The Sands?” The darkling pursed his lips of a deep brownish red color and was again silent for a second as his eyes moved back and forth. “You were right to come directly to me. What is your name?”

  “I am Mejhem the White Fox,” said the man with a slight nod of his head. “Manetho was able to communicate with the northerners although I do not know of what they spoke.”

  The darkling propped his elbows on the table and stared off into the distance without saying anything for a long time, although the nomad showed no signs of impatience and merely stood silently waiting. “You will want food, water, a fresh horse?” said the darkling his eyes once again fixed on Mejhem.