walk free!”
“Then deliver your wrath, my captain,” Lydea began to
rise again, and the darkness in her inky eyes cast its terrible
gaze. “End this horror I have become, and weep not, for
long have I been tired of this blasphemous unlife” Before she could finish the final word, Vald descended on
her like thunder. The Gray Wolf was bright as white fire, and
it arced downward from above. The blade slid through
Lydea from shoulder to hip. She was cloven utterly, but the
blade met its stop at her arachnid pelvis with a clang. Her
scream shook the walls, and Horn sprung forward, broken
of her grief.
Before Horn could land a blow, the dark Queen spread
her spidery spears with sudden force, and Vald was pierced
at his left shoulder. His grip stayed true, and he clattered to the floor still holding the mighty blade. He was out of the fight. His eyes darkened.
Horn grappled with the mangled spider creature, tears on her cheeks. She was an accomplished warrior, but her shock had made her weak. Lydea lifted Horn by the neck. Her smashed face howled with fury, and she began to crush the life from her captain.
It seemed they had been outmatched. The battle was lost now. Mud lay unconscious, Tomm was cold, Vald was slumped on Lydea’s spear-leg like a sack of wheat, and Horn was dangling like a worm on a hook. But the dark Queen’s gaze suddenly softened, and her neck went slack. She dropped Horn, and leaned back on her 7 legs like a merchant in a pile of furs. A foam of green ghast ebbed from her shattered mouth. It smoldered and fumed with poisonous power. Her black eyes cleared, and closed forever. She slumped over.
There, behind that demon that was once an Elf, stood a tiny, cloaked figure. In one hand she held a green-tipped dagger. Her face was pale and terrified. It was little Sparrow. Ory’s poison had met its mark, and the deed was done.
She rushed over to Vald, pulled the hideous spear from him, and eased him to the ground. She was crying. “Ahh, my little bird.” Vald whispered, “impeccable timing, as always,” he coughed and went slack.
Sparrow held her Captain close, and cried, and saw Horn. They sat there in stupor and fright for what seemed forever. The guards had fled, the night was silent, and they were in those small hours when fear is so near it can be felt on the skin. So ended the Queen Lydea, and so began a trail of blood and revenge that could never be undone.
10
Two years passed in the valley of Westburg, or Towe r’s Shadow Glen as folk started to call it.
What was once a thriving burg was now a vine-choked ghost town. When news of that terrible night in the tower reached the ears of common folk, there was reason enough to flee. So they left in droves to Duros, and Ur, and the Northern cities of Crel and TenMound. On their way, many made pilgrimage to the grave of ol’ Tomm, who gave his life to end the dark times of Westburg and the Elvish tower. The spider-thing that was found that morning was burned, and the elders murmured with fear and portents.
Vald, the Captain of Akram, had gone West to Ramthas, the capital. With him were Sparrow, and Horn, and an Orc King named Mud. In chains they went, for Lydea was dear to King Akram, and Vald demanded they face their own consequences. So together they stood, and like slaves they were toted away in an iron wagon.
Two years since that day. No one had heard or seen of the four of them, and no news of any Orc rebellion grew. Ory, Tomm’s wife, vanished to the far North, returning to her folk. It seemed that though Lydea had fallen, a greater evil had been aroused, and the commoners were in a hushed, terrified peace.
Two years was marked on the nose by Dobbs Tarny. He drank on that day in despair, for he had aided in the attack that emptied his town and ruined his business. He had heard rumor of a colony of free Orcs fighting on the Ulric Frontier, so there was good to be found, but the doom of Westburg was his doom. So he drank.
He drank the Red Gar for which he was famous, and the sadness softened. It was late afternoon, and only a halfcarved ham kept him company in the lonely bar. Until she arrived.
It was Sparrow, the ‘Little Sparrow’ as she had been called by local bards. Dobbs had no idea how long she had been standing there. Her face was hidden in cloak’s black shadow. A voice issued forth. A tiny, unused whisper:
“Need...to...eat….” she whimpered. Her knees shook.
Dobbs stood to address her, she sprung back in an instant, was crouched and brandishing two glowing, curved blades. Her eyes were deadly as a tiger in the darkness of her hood. Dobbs froze.
“I mean you no harm, little girl. Are... are you ‘The Sparrow’?”
She eased her pounce, but stayed frozen. Dobbs understood, and went to the kitchen. When he returned she was seated, hood folded back, and falling asleep at a table. Dobbs slid a wooden stew bowl forward, made full a goblet, and leaned back. She was beautiful, no older than 14, and luminous even in clear distress. Her greyish hair was wound in bent metal rings; a warrior’s habit. She favored one arm, barely able to lift her spoon at first.
“You look like you’ve had a bad day,” Dobbs smiled, and returned to his Gar.
She did not reply.
“You were there that night, they say. Slay’d the Dark Queen you did, they say.”
She looked up, chewing.
“Westburg has been a ruin ever since. I hope you knew what you were doing.”
“I had to save him,” she whispered. Dobbs shook his head and scoffed. He dropped another gulp and looked around the empty room theatrically.
“And where is The Captain of Akram now, eh? Where is the King’s blessing when dark times grow even darker? We were better off under her twisted rule.”
Sparrow finished her stew, thanked him, quaffed the Gar in one gulp, and stood up. She was lithe and strong, but tiny. Her cloak had been through hell; the rips and parallel slashes betrayed more than one sword cut.
“The right of all we do will outlast us,” she uttered with strange confidence, and pulled forward her hood. Dobbs glanced at her bowl, now empty, and when he looked up she was gone. There was no way someone could run out of there that fast. He laughed to himself and had another gulp.
Outside, in the boughs of a full Elm tree just before Autumn’s gold, she hid and rested a moment. Her mind still vibrated and hummed with deafening tremors. It was time to finish the loop, to end the cycle, and seal the salvation of this world forever. There was no time to waste, or an infinite amount; depending on your point of view. She sprung to action, and made her way to the tower, or what was left of it.
Now that nature had embraced the castle, climbing its walls was a breeze. Sparrow found herself at that familiar rooftop view in no time. She looked out at the countryside in wonder. The road was overgrown, and a few roofs had sagged in with the weight of leaves and weeds. She fought back tears, focused, and began clearing the growth. The roof was ringed in wood-lined loopholes and benches. The crenelations were a foot thick, and vines were choking every corner of the masonry. She worked calmly, but with haste. The vines came free easily. Then she saw it, a small marking, little more than a rune etched with a dagger. Through that gap in the stones so marked she looked, and the stones made a perfect slot to see a mound of trees five miles away. It was indistinct in every way save its alignment to the tower.
She marked the direction in her mind, leapt over the edge, and slinked Northward at speed. No sounds stirred save the Crow’s call.
Now it is commonly believed that Lydea was dear to King Akram because she was fair, and kind, and ancient. In fact, their alliance was a form of oath. In the dark days after the war in Duros-Tem, Elves were made low, and they took terms from their Dwarven victors. Among these was the scattering of the great weapons of the Elven champions. There were three: a Bow, a Sword, and a Shield. Each was buried in its own tomb and made secret by camouflage. Three Elven stewards were chosen. Their charge was to guard these artifacts with their life. They sw
ore on the High Forge to uphold this.
Dwarves are generally not known for magic power, but to lay a hand on that mass of diamond and iron, and make an oath, is a binding gease of terrible might. It is beyond a curse: it is a Dwarven High Oath, and it carries as great a price as it does a boone.
This thing Lydea came to know well as she pined in her tower, doomed to lay watch over the buried blade of Redfang, the Elven hero who died destroying the Dwarven defenses at Terror Glen. This was her High Oath. None knew of this save Dwarven Elders and the Elven exiles. One hundred generations had hidden the designs of the Dwarves in forgetfulness.
So Sparrow set through the woods like a hunting dog on a scent.
11
It was common knowledge that the four surviving vigilantes who attacked Queen Lydea were manacled and led to Ramthas, seat of King Akram, as murderers. They had not been heard from since.
Tavern rumo r was that they languish still in Akram’s mines, where they awaited his final judgement. The truth was far stranger.
They were greeted by Elite guards, draped in wolf pelts, and given horns of cold Gar. Their shackles remained. Shuffling like metal snakes they approached the high chamber. It was a surreal scene.
The lines and angles of Dwarven architecture had long met human sensibilities. The resulting megalithic culture featured gabled stone arches, trapezoidal column bases, and great hewn figures in green marble. So the room in which the world was ruled was cut. Into this chamber walked four prisoners: Vald, Captain of Akram, King Mud the Orc, Horn, an Elven traitor, and a child called Sparrow. It was warm and smelled of beef ribs and Gar.
Into this warm stone light strode a mighty figure. He was Akram, the half-human Dwarven king who united the world to defeat the Elves. He was the best of both races, tall and stout, loyal and wise, swift to learn and faster to act; Akram the Sun Stone, World Giver, The Law he was called too.
His black locks were held in brass clasps, and a line of brass epaulettes bound his jersey to his hauberk like the bones of a spine. He glowed with calm, and friendliness, and humility. At the same moment though, he was a terrifying, imposing building of a man.
Vald fell to one knee and looked down. Mud made a vague gesture, blinking. Sparrow did not move a muscle. Horn also knelt.
The King, Sun Stone, approached Sparrow. Her knees were knocking, and her palms went clammy. The King’s eyes were pools of overdue love. He was a godlike presence.
“I am Akram,” he said to her simply. “What’s your name?” Sparrow just looked at him. A guard, with green marble inlays in his high-browed helm, gasped audibly when she did not give the King a reply. The insolence! The King was unfazed, and one by one removed their chains himself.
“You’ve been through too much already, if you ask me,” Akram went on. He walked over to Vald and placed his broad smith’s hand on the Northman’s shoulder. Vald stood tall instantly. The King looked at him directly with stern, real disappointment. It seemed the mountains could crumble in that father’s stare. Vald held firm, and began to smile. The King, a true friend to all, broke his ruse and hugged Vald like a brother. They laughed, and the guards eased.
“I’m so glad you’re alive, my old friend,” Akram grabbed Vald by the shoulders, and had to look up to meet his gaze. Vald smiled wide, closing his eyes.
“This is Sparrow, my King,” Vald motioned to her. “It’s an honor to meet a person of such courage.” He walked over to her, in a Kingly way. “You are the very best of us, little Sparrow.”
“Your majesty,” she answered is a raspy whisper. She fell to one knee almost by instinct, her heart glowed with the King’s aura. This was her Captain’s King, and his presence filled her with knowing that evil would never win. Not here. Not in this slice of time.
Old friends were reunited that night, and new ones made. Horn seemed to hold her distance, but her loyalty was to Akram, not her own dark race. Mud spoke long into the night with Akram, as Kings do, while Vald and Sparrow took to their chambers and slept like bears. So the real adventure began.
By the next night they were departed for a most dire mission. The King brought his new friends on a perilous campaign that would defy explanation, and seal their alliance in blood. For Akram’s knowledge of the depth of Elven evil was beyond comprehension: His was knowledge that spanned millennia. He was glad that Lydea was gone, but her death set terrible forces in motion few could dream of.
The five of them walked beyond Duros-Tem, that alone a 3 week journey, and into the ice spires of Gem Glacier. There the ice is so cold and blue and deep, folk say time itself can be frozen… That eons still echo in those bottomless cracks that have long since passed. Here they sought the snow-drifted tent of Kazgat the Wizard. He was an old hermit who dared the wastes and storms, and over decades had hewn secret pathways through the crevasses and cyan chasms of that frozen otherworld.
Here Akram took them, and they trusted his motives. All they knew is that they were his champions, and a dire task lay ahead.
So they finally approached that desolate outpost, which was little more than a hide-covered lump in man-high drifts and a white gale. Weird red flags and scraps of etched leather whipped in the unrelenting wind, but the smell of smoke and salted venison comforted them, and Akram drew the door back to enter. No one was inside. The tent was lined with bones and scrying bowls, trinkets and philes of goo. The central fire burned low, as if left for a time. At one side a pile of furs and rugs made for a bed, and at the other a work table hosted a dizzying array of runic etchings, scattered parchment, quill and walnut pots, and a smoldering incense bell. The whole place was dim and orangelit like a dragon’s lair, and a heavy mood of omens hung in the gloom.
Akram unshouldered his pack, and unbuckled his blade. The sword was known far and wide: Angrid, Lawgiver, or called Huro Din by the Dwarves, which meant Mountain Shard. This weapon was old as the races themselves, and featured a broad, short blade with geometric lines and a stout, square guard. The pommel was a lodestone unhewn, and the hilt was inlaid with lapis and sharkskin. This artifact the King rested on the floor, crossed his legs and sat. He rubbed his hands by the fire. The rest of the group stood.
“Sit you fools!” the King finally said, “There is no need for protocol or manners at the ends of the Earth! We are equals here!”
They did as he asked, and his greatness was again proven. So it was the five of them sat, and warmed themselves. They shared a bite of cold pemmican, touched nothing, and waited.
Most citizens of Alfheim believe true wizards to be a thing of the past; mythic figures from bygone times. Kazgat was among these characters. His name was mentioned in a dozen epic poems, parables, and moral stories of Alfheim’s younger centuries. He was portrayed as a noble hermit, King’s vizier, or shapeshifting trickster depending on the tale. In one story, he took the form of a white elk, and gave dream council to the Dwarf citizen soldiers of Duros-Tem. In another, he was a shadowy, red-eyed devil that guarded a great fumarole in the remote oceans of the South. The wildest portrayal depicted Kazgat as a six-armed demigod. This weird story warned of love betrayed, and Kazgat served as the immortal deliverer of vengeance deserved.
He was, of course, none of these things. He was a man; a very very old man. Why time had not shown him death none knew, but he had outlived entire civilizations. This didn’t mean he was proof to aging, though, for as the centuries wore onward his grey beard grew long, and his bones weary with toil. He craved death’s visit, but it simply did not happen.
In this vast timespan of living, he attained a level of arcane knowledge far beyond the reach of those with a few paltry decades of study to boast. He knew the planes of existence, the words of power, and the glyphs of warding. He could command matter, and time, and thought. For all this power though, he had little taste for the dramas of men. So he made his home in this ice-crusted glacier, beyond the lake town of Helmar, just West of the Black Coast. It was a quiet retreat from the endless nagging of power-hungry despots and small-time tyr
ants.
That day was clear, as days near his glacier went, and the wind was only a mild gale. He could walk, with effort, in such conditions. So he went to the boulder field to hunt marmot, and sable, and reset his traps. Home he went at day’s end with a rack of prey, a boot to mend, and icy toes. Shin deep he retraced the path he had walked so many times, but as he crested the last ridge he realized someone was in his house.
No ordinary someone. King Akram, the Wall-Falcon, had come. This as an omen was terrible, for never idly did Akram visit. Despite this, Kazgat brightened, and hurried, for the King was his dear friend.
12
“The evil of Lydea, trapped in her tower, was not only the weight of her High Oath festered into madness,” Kazgat spoke in a hypnotic drone, and stirred a stewpot. The tent was warm and the wind found no foothold within. “No, her evil knew its roots far deeper, in the will of Manac the Cursed.”
Sparrow leaned closer to Vald and drew her cloak in. To even speak that name was to risk horrors and doom. Her curiosity for the nature of their quest heightened with her fear. Vald held firm, and smiled at her. Theirs was a love few can know.
“That demon has set in motion his final fallback plan,” Kazgat continued, “now that he has suffered two losses and the hour grows late.”
“Losses!” Akram barked, “The War of th e Wall was his blood-soaked plan. He hurled his kin against mine and ran the rivers red. Now we sit here, faced to finish what he started. Evil I can comprehend. Malice I can touch, but this endless rage and thirst for wanton death I simply cannot fathom.”
“So there is only one course,” Kazgat returned, “which is why you’ve come my old friend.” Akram nodded solemnly, stroking his beard and reaching for his mug. It sloshed with Gar; a dark, thick stout that warmed him to the toes. His spirits brightened. “Aye,” he said simply.
“Then it is time to set trust aside and know our purpose,” Mud spoke up. Kazgat gave him a long gaze, seeing in him the weight of the Pools, the burden of his people, and the passion of his ambitions for a better world. “We’ve trudged for weeks to sit in a tent and speak of the Demon Manac. Let me guess, you mean to assault his fortress and unmake his whole epoch of evil, and we 5 are to do it!”
Mud and Horn, Sword and Sparrow (Runehammer Books Book 1) Page 5