Mud and Horn, Sword and Sparrow (Runehammer Books Book 1)

by Brandish Gilhelm

  “No, King Mud,” Akram interrupted, “in our time Manac is impregnable. The frozen swamps of the Black Coast have never been crossed. Manac lies beyond our reach.”

  “Then what? A gease to make us birds? Enough riddles and wizardry. With all respect, Mountain King, tell us your plan.”

  Kazgat bent his head to the King and served up bowls of carrots and radish. “Very well. A century from now, Manac the Accursed will attempt to unleash a terrible blight on our world. He will lay waste to all we cherish. It has been foreseen. In that time, his efforts will fail. Heroes unknown will stop him. Knowing this, Manac has turned his eye to the distant past. To unmake what he cannot defeat.”

  Horn sniffed and coughed on her steaming-hot soup. She typically said little, but this was a lot to simply sit through. “A century from now? The distant past?”

  “Aye, Horn,” Akram stared into his Gar, “there are those in our world with the ability to move through time much as we cross the mountains. With great effort, great peril, and great magic they do so. Only two such beings remain: Manac the Demon and Kazgat the Sultan.” Akram’s eyes went to his wizened friend.

  Kazgat frowned, and scowled, and suddenly began to giggle. It was all so very serious. He composed himself, and answered, “It’s true. A relic have I that can move men through the centuries. The counterpart of this thing Manac possesses, and he means to use it.”

  “To what end?” Vald asked.

  “In the primordius, the time of genesis, when the races of Alfheim came to be; there he plans to go and unmake all but the Dark Elves. Only his kin will have ever been, and all that we have done and cherished will not only be destroyed, it will never have happened at all.”

  The gravity of this settled on the room.

  Mud was the first to clear his wits, for he was used to riddles and madness. The mysterious green eyes gazed back at him in his vision. Milky, vacant green eyes filled with love. The blackness of the infinite waters…

  “Then there lies our fight!” Mud announced with a smile. There was a pause, for Orcish manners can be confounding to men and Elves. When they all realized his mirth, his honesty, and his bright eyes in the face of death, they all glowed and grinned.

  “Great is the blood in your veins, Mud,” Akram spoke in his King’s voice, “and true are your words. To the primordius we are to be sent, and there defeat Manac the Devil for all time. This is the purpose we share that the death of Lydea set in motion. I hate to set such a burden on you, my new friends, but upon no other can it rest. It is up to us.”

  Vald smiled, Horn looked deeply troubled, and Sparrow finished her soup.

  13

  The icy wind turned and spun outside Kazgat’s tent as the night wore on. Horn, the Elven warrior, did as she often did: sharpened her blades and said nothing. How her people had fallen! Elves were the symbol of all that can be good in this world; stewards of knowledge and guardians of old strength. So she thought. To discover they bought their nobility with the blood of Orcs, and laid waste to their own legacy with vanity and lies was unthinkable, but she now knew this as truth. And now an Elf stood at the center of a cosmic doom, and to Horn it seemed selfish to shed a tear for her unborn child. The black-coal eyes and crumpled ash fingers still panged her in the small hours.

  She had fallen in love with Karn, an Orc warchief of the Greenway. He was a powerful, beautiful creature with a generous heart. Their paths crossed in those ancient woods, and instead of blood enemies they saw in each other a peer. Karn’s folk eventually accepted her, for she passed the Orcish trials and drank Gar with the best of them. Horn’s kin, though, the royal line of Lydea, were not so accepting. So their forbidden love grew.

  Now Karn and his tribe lay dead, slaughtered by Lydea’s troops, and her child long buried near Westburg, in the mighty company of ol’ Tomm. Her queen was ash and memory, and her race fouled with shame. What honor could remain but this fool’s quest?

  She drew the wet stone along the curved blade again, ground her teeth. If no joy remained, then wrath would suffice.

  “What is the primordius?” Sparrow asked softly. It was just before dawn, and Kazgat’s fire was low.

  “It is where we all come from, child,” Kazgat stirred in his furs, shook off a sleeping hand, and sat upright. The haze and scent of Gar was clearing, and Sparrow’s face was aglow with youth and fear in the orange light. “it is part place, part time… a nether world of shapeless chaos from which all things spring. In the young eons of time it was allencompassing, but now it has cooled into the worlds and suns we know.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “None do, little bird. How can our mortal minds even pretend to see the truth of stars and the drifting cosmos? All we know of the primordius is academic, save for those who have walked its fractured mazes and returned to tell of it.”

  “Have you been there?”

  “Yes. Long ago, when I was much younger. In those days I thirsted for knowledge and power…”

  “And now?”

  “Now? Now I only seek peace, and wisdom, and the satisfaction of loyalty to old friends.”

  Sparrow said no more. She stared into the fire, occasionally glancing to Vald who slept next to her. His bold chin and square brow were dire even in sleep. She was in awe of him. Her dream was to be his queen someday, when she came of age, but that day would likely never come. To her it sounded as if even success meant death on this quest. She looked back to the embers and fretted until dawn made the wind audible again.

  In time they all stirred, had washed in a pot of boiled glacial ice, and had eaten breakfast. The Mountain King cooked tomatoes and bacon under Kazgat’s supervision. They grinned and mocked his terrible toast. Those were the moments that truly defined him as King, not courage in battle nor calm in rule. It was his humility in the company of the mighty that set him apart.

  “How is it done, exactly?” Vald asked at last.

  Kazgat sighed, reached into an iron-cornered box, and revealed a stone amulet carved in a circle. It was crude and simple, hanging on a leather braid in three knots.

  “The power resides in this token,” he said, “it need only be touched when intent be true.”

  “And if untrue?” Vald scowled.

  “Then all the eons will engulf you, and there is no knowing when you will wind up.”

  “Simple enough.”

  Mud reached out and took the amulet by its cord. He held it aloft, sought acknowledgement from all, and stood. With his left hand he braced his belt and pulled his mail straps tight. He wore a comical crested helm with no chin strap. His shoulders were as broad as two men, and his forearms the size of a man’s thigh. In his great presence the amulet was but a pebble.

  “Enough preparation then,” Akram proclaimed, and stood beside him. He lifted Angrid, rolled his shoulders, and clasped the buckle of his hauberk. Everyone before him rose and met his eyes. “New friends no longer,” he began, “now we tread a hidden path, to stop the doom of our time. Armies of demons and storms of swords may meet us, but we will hold true to one another. In the end, we may never know glory or the spoils of what we do, save the satisfaction of valor proven, and duty fulfilled. So say I.”

  There was a long pause.

  “So say we all.” the group replied in unison, following the old Dwarven oath.

  “I do not have the Great Forge handy, my friends, ”Akram went on, “but let this serve as my High Oath.” He placed his open hand on Kazgat’s cutting board, the closest thing to an anvil in the tent. He smiled. “I will fight for your lives to the bitter end, and lay down my life for Alfheim. Lo, even in defeat I dare the Gods make us immortal that we may fight on. This I vow.”

  One by one they stepped forward, and placed their hands on the King’s. Each repeated the dirge. At last, Mud withdrew his mighty hand, holding a piece of crispy tomato left behind. He popped it in his mouth and grinned like a child.

  “Reach out,” he said as they shook their heads at him, “and let go to the p
rimordius. To red work and great deeds. Make clear your will to go, and it will be done, as Kazgat the Sultan, hermit wizard of old, has promised.” Kazgat said nothing.

  Together, they reached out, touched the stone, and vanished.

  14

  Three nights had passed since Dobbs Tarny had been visited by Sparrow in his pub. All three he had thought of her. What happened to the heroes of Westburg after that fateful night? Where had they been these two long, slow years? Why had she suddenly reappeared?

  His wonder turned to worry. It was a downpour that night. He sat alone in the tavern, sipping, thinking. Something would not let his instincts rest. Forget it, he told himself over and over, adventures only ruin towns and spoil business. But he couldn’t shake the feeling she needed help. The rain intensified as if to belittle him.

  “Bloody hell,” he murmured, rising from the wooden stool. He sloshed down one last gulp of Red Gar and grabbed his fur cloak. He donned a wide brimmed leather hat, grabbed a few cheese loaves wrapped in sackcloth, and lit a box lantern. He had no swords or axes, but there was an old soldier’s spear above the doorway from his conscript days. It was three spans long and tipped with a steel blade that still shone bright. The haft felt good in his hand.

  “These charity ventures will be the death o’ you, Dobbs,” he grunted. There was no one to worry about him, no one to keep the hearth warm. He took a long look around and went outside into the dark. The rain was heavy, but the wind stayed low. It was mid autumn, but the night was warm for the Westlands. Travel wouldn’t be so bad, and the downpour would keep the bugs and baddies in their hidey holes.

  She hadn’t known it, but Dobbs had seen Sparrow dart off into the woods. She moved with terrible purpose. He had no idea how far she’d gone or why, but here he was a damn fool going to look for her anyway. He shook off the doubt and took his first step off the road. That first step was into an ankle deep puddle of muck.

  “Ahh the woods!” he practically yelled over the noise of the rain.

  He took his first reprieve at Coffin Rock. A sip of brandy and a nibble of cheese out of the rain and he was off again. His hillman’s stride wasn’t all gone, and he could still cover ground like a soldier. The spear he used as walking staff and pole vault, moving quickly through the dark. Every step deepened his feeling of woe. Something was wrong. The Little Sparrow was in danger and he knew it now.

  By sun’s first muted, misty light he’d covered miles, moving in a straight line. The light gave him some comfort, and the ability to do a bit of homespun tracking. He inspected branches and mossy dents with simulated wisdom. Enough patience and a sign was found: boot prints straight on, and deep in the toes as if running. A real tracker could’ve found much more, but he was just a worried barkeep.

  That track he followed and came to an odd barrow, or mound, crowned with high alders. They were brittle and sickly, implying the hill was hollow or stone. He probed around cautiously, a jagged lump of cheese dangling from his mouth.

  “Sparrow, lass?” he said meekly, answered by silence. The rain had eased, but still drizzled. Around the barrow he went to its further, darker side. There the brittle alders were trampled. He followed the mess, and a dark opening yawned in the gloom. He froze. The hole was half a man high, and bent inward with centuries of moss and leaning peat. He felt hesitation stir in his spine.

  Scared, eh Dobbs? He thought. Just poop in your damn boots and get on with it, ya’ wretch! But he was still frozen there.

  “‘Ello?” he called again. Nothing. Now Dobbs Tarny was no hero, or adventurer, or ranger; he was just a man from a small town. He’d his own daughter once, and family all ‘round. They’d all perished in the famine of Moons a decade past. As the years had gone by their faces faded, but at this moment he could see them clear as day. The drizzle abated, his grip on the old spear tightened, and into the hole he plunged like a charging pikeman.

  He made it a bow shot or two, lantern in hand, before the den-like hole became a squarish tunnel. Here fear made footholds, and the cold gripped him. Girding himself, he shed his hesitation like an old skin and found a courage long dormant.

  “One step in front o’ the next, Dobbs,” he told himself.

  15

  The folksy view of time travel portrays a wild ride through a twisted tunnel of energy. Even in primitive times, the races of Alfheim dreamed of such a journey. Wise men and shamans have for ages cast their spirits to the wind, using astral projection and divination to travel the timeways… or so they believed.

  The truth of what is commonly called ‘time travel’ is in reality far more terrifying, and sudden, and ugly. To ‘travel’ in time, one need only perceive time for what it truly is: a vast plenum of tangled, folding, vibrating forces too titanic to fathom; whirling and convulsing on a scale so wracking to the mortal mind that even to gaze upon it for an instant is to suffer a life age of mental anguish. In that instant, the cold, abstract beings that dwell behind the cosmos show their formless faces. Their colossal wills bear down on the illusion of order with horrific weight. In the darkness between the stars there is a screaming spear of dread, for their power can feel like cruelty, but they are beyond such tiny motivations. They are beyond even the gods. They are time itself, and all it moves.

  Mortal beings know fortune, for this world is hidden to their senses. Those few who look upon it go insane, are utterly annihilated, or simply cease to have ever been. Their tiny wills are absorbed like a raindrop in a river. The stone amulet Kazgat gave Mud, and the heroes of Alfheim, protected the mind from these fractured hells of cosmic suchness. Through intent alone they found themselves at the primordius, with only burning nightmares of the voyage to provide bearing.

  On a slab of basalt polished smooth they stood, Horn sitting, Vald on one knee. Horn looked up, and under an oily, curling sky of ink and molten lightning she saw Vald’s face. His eyes were hollow with fear and agony. Sparrow was shaking violently, clinging to his waist like a child, her face buried in her hood.

  Against this scene in contrast stood King Mud the Orc, whose dead gaze seemed unaffected by the disorienting dream visions. King Akram, stout as ever, hung low his mighty head, and in one broad hand nervously rolled a rune stone over and over. He was gathering his strength the old Dwarven way.

  As for Horn she was ice cold, her cheeks tear-tracked, and she felt hollow as if she hadn’t eaten for a week. The visions of eyes and dead stars and wheeling clouds of worlds in tentacles wrap’d still burned when she blinked. She struggled to rise, checked her gear, and with a sore, heavy neck she surveyed their landing point. This must be the primordius, she thought.

  It was a sight beyond gloom. Titanic slabs of black stone leaned together in shattered mounds. Between these shards, each as big as a city, a green and yellow gas roiled and glowed. All ‘cross the wastes dark sheets of rain wandered, and in the distance the stone slabs lifted into the sky to form a cloud of broken glass shapes. Four black suns floated above the toothy horizon in a triangle conjunction, one in full eclipse, one dotted by fractures and plumes of fire. There was a low rumble, or hum, below the thunder. At some remote distance a roar, or perhaps more of a groan punctuated the horror with demonic voice.

  “So this is the dawn of time,” Akram announced. His strength was renewed, and he stepped forward to the slab’s edge. His face showed stern courage, “I’ve seen worse.” He turned to Sparrow, who released her grip on Vald’s waist, and faced him. The Dwarven King knelt, smiled, and pulled back her hood. Into her eyes he looked with kindness, and love, and she was whole again.

  “Do not fear, little bird. You are a mighty warrior, and a cunning thief. Your company are loyal and true. By my old sword, and these ten knuckles I swear: no harm will befall you, nor sunder this friendship we share.”

  She patted his wide hands, stiffened her back, shook off her fears and nodded once.

  “We follow the suns,” Vald muttered suddenly, already braced and striding, “I’m sure Manac will know we’re here, and extend a
welcome. Be at ready.”

  “Ready for what?” Horn asked, still sitting cross-legged.

  “I think we’ll know when we see it.”

  Horn seemed satisfied with that and rose.

  It was a strange scene, the five of them walking down the escarpment in single file like mountain goats. Akram always at the lead, and Sparrow flitting side to side, crouching on outcrops; shielding her eyes from the low glare. A raging battle or charging army would have been a more welcome sight than this desolate dreamscape. There was almost no sound, no animals, not even a dead tree or lichen on the stone for comfort. The primordius was a place before life, and only hot dry air met their noses. It smelled like molten iron, or rust.

  In their grim column they walked, the suns above wheeling but never setting, and steadily they worked their way through the labyrinth of jagged black knives. Hunger and thirst they slaked from skin and waybread. Rest they took on slab and cloak. What must have been days passed, they spoke less. Faces grew grim, eyes grey. It was a dull, silent doom with no surprise or danger or hope to break the drear.

  “It’s much like a dream,” Akram commented, sitting on a cubic basalt stone.

  “Many say the world began as a dream of the Gods,” Mud returned, “but if I were God, my dream would be not this soundless hell.”

  “How can life find a foothold here?” Vald entered the conversation. They had very little water or mead left, and he was worried for Sparrow. “Or more to the point, how will we survive this journey?”

  The group thought long on this, as they all had in silence for what must have been weeks now.