by RW Krpoun
“Are you all right?” Provine Sael asked.
“Yeah,” Hatcher rolled onto her back, counting under her breath, and a second volley of shards flashed over her. “I’m getting the hang of how they do things here.”
“Do you need to take a rest?”
“Nah. I’m in the groove.” She rolled back over and started forward. “The designer’s getting serious here.”
“Will it just be traps?” Burk asked.
“No,” Hunter didn’t look up from the carvings. “There will be guards, undoubtedly the product of necromancy.”
“Nothing new there,” Burk shrugged.
After an hour or so we moved up to join Hatcher as she reached the left turn. The passage only went another five feet before opening into a large, dark barrow similar to the one we had been ‘moved’ into.
“Are there rules regarding traps in there?” Hatcher sat back on her haunches.
“There won’t be any outside of the passage,” Provine Sael said quietly. “Get us to the end of the passage, and then go join Pieter.”
“I think I’ll stay,” Hatcher tugged at her cap. “In the back, though.”
“As you wish. Burk, hold out your morning star.” She whispered over the weapon as Hatcher started forward again.
“That’s it,” Hatcher announced a little while later. “I hope you’re right about the inside.”
“I am. Come here so I can prepare your knives.”
“My lights won’t enter the barrow,” Hunter noted in an unsurprised voice. “I’m going to anchor one here and the other far enough back so those of us who survive can safely depart.”
“Quit mincing words and tell us how you really feel,” Hatcher suggested as Provine Sael finished with her knives.
I drew Fallsblade and moved through the basic manual of arms to limber up. “We should lead, mistress.”
“I suppose you are right. Whatever happens, I want both of you to know how much I value your service. You truly have brought great honor to the Ebon Blades.”
“It has been an honor to have served, mistress.” I stepped across the threshold.
After endurance training on hot days Master Horne allowed us to go swimming in the river, and we often jumped from the crumbling walls of a defunct grain mill into the deep mill pond. You dropped through the warm sunlight to arrow deep into the dark, cool water, touching down on the sandy river bottom, twenty feet of water overhead like a huge cold blanket.
That was how that first step into the barrow felt: like that moment touching the riverbed. The air felt solid and cold, although I could still breathe; colors were sort of gone, as if only black and white existed. Fallsblade was a bar of white light, glowing like it had just been drawn from the forge, and it sort of vibrated in my hands, not enough to affect my grip, just a sort of hum.
My body felt normal, but when it moved it sort of looked like I was walking underwater; Burk looked to be twenty feet to my left, his face bone-white and the steel ball of his morning star glowing white, although not nearly as brightly as Fallsblade.
Things were not proper, but there was no going back, and so long as I had a weapon the situation was not lost.
A figure came out of the darkness ahead of me in fits and starts, like it was escaping a cloud of ink. It loomed over me even though it seemed to be a bit hunched at the shoulders. As it gained definition I could see it was sort of like a man, except its knees bent backwards, and its feet were hooves, big ones, like a dray horse, but cleft. Its body was hairless, and unclothed except for a sort of fur kilt. A skull that looked like a horse or mule skull covered its face and most of its head, and antlers like an elk’s swept back, although I couldn’t tell if they were part of the creature or if they belonged to the skull it wore. Long dark hair streamed behind it, and its long, bare arms ended in hands that had three fingers, a thumb, and a sort of flexible knub.
Most important was the axe it was carrying in those strange hands: long-handled and with a rune-carved wedge of flint blade that left black sparks swirling in its wake.
I stopped and took a low-center guard, Fallsblade’s point about six inches from the floor, its pommel pointing at my belt buckle. “I am Grog, a High Rate of the Ebon Blades,” I said, my voice seeming to vanish into the weird light. “A barracks of the old school.”
It closed, swinging high and hard; I side-stepped the stroke and went in low, but the backward knees fooled me, and I hardly nicked its shins. I parried a second swing and stepped in to throw a hard kick straight from the hip, planting my right boot into its left thigh. It staggered, and I came away with the knowledge that it was taller, but didn’t weigh that much more than I did, and the funny legs were no more stable than anyone else’s.
The creature could make that axe sing through the unnatural air, however weird the beast looked; I shifted to the defensive and watched, getting a feel for what this thing could do. The odd hands made the axe more maneuverable than it would normally be, and its thin arms clearly had plenty of strength, but what it didn’t have was a lot of skill: it swung like I was a tree that it had to cut down quick.
Normally, I don’t like to surrender the initiative; in fact, I prefer to get in and finish the business fast, counting on reach, strength, and footwork, but a fighter who is unwilling to adapt will die young. I let the thing chop at me, parrying and side-stepping as seemed best, letting it show me how it thought a fight should be conducted.
I was bleeding from a couple nicks, but I was learning fast, and as it started into a powerful cross-body swing I half-stepped back and swung from the middle-outside, trying for its left wrist. It managed to let go in the nick of time, but Fallsblade notched the axe-haft, and for an instant the thing’s axe was knocked to the side and unbalanced. I stepped in, bringing the blade up and over my shoulder as a continuation of the strike, and then drove Fallsblade’s heavy pommel into its face.
The skull it was wearing shattered, and the thing jumped clumsily back, tossing its head to discarded the damaged headpiece. I closed, swinging high and short for speed, and it managed to get its axe in the way, only to have the impact of blade and shaft send its weapon spinning away.
It continued to backpedal, reaching to the small of its back to produce a long, slender flint dagger for each hand as it went. The horns were its own, I noted absently as I closed; the thing had no nose, a tiny chin, and wide unblinking eyes that seemed completely round and all one color, although it was hard to tell in this weird semi-light.
Boring in with the point, I went for its belly; it twisted and lashed out with both blades, one to parry, the other thrusting at my face. I tucked my chin as the parrying blade shattered against Fallsblade, and a second later the other dagger’s point screeched across the underside of the kettle hat’s brim, sliced the chin strap near where it was attached to a small metal loop, and brushed my scalp just behind my right ear.
Fallsblade’s point caught it a little high and to the side, skating across ribs as it failed to bite deep. Hopping back, I got Fallsblade back to a middle-center guard, with my sword held horizonal in front of me, the pommel centered on my belt buckle, the point slightly higher than the hilt.
The thing hesitated, down to one dagger. It started to gesture towards me with its free hand, but I was moving, stepping at an angle to my right and swinging hard, the blade coming up and over my right shoulder and then arcing forward and down, shattering the parrying dagger blade and then shearing through the thing’s forearm a couple inches down from the wrist.
Twisting and pushing harder with my left, lower hand which, with the heavy pommel, brought my sword point up as I kept going forward, driving into the thing’s chest, aiming to come up under what would be the sternum on a Man.
The point hit bone, but I was fully committed, and it punched through and on into the flesh beyond; that would have flexed an ordinary sword hard, possibly leaving a permanent bend or even snapping the blade, and certainly blunting the edges on both sides, but Fallsblade just slid forwar
d with a bit of vibration and the unforgettable feel of steel grinding its way through bone that always travels all the way up the tang and settled in your back molars.
The thing threw back its horned head and howled, although the noise of it was faint and seemed far away; I kicked it in the thigh again as I withdrew to help the draw, getting another shivering sensation of steel chewing bone, and then Fallsblade was free and the thing was collapsing in a way that said it wasn’t ever going to stand upright again.
Trying to catch my breath, because there is never enough air in a fight, I turned and looked around. A distance from me, in the direction I guessed to be back towards the passage, I saw Provine Sael. Her skin seem to glow, her staff was a bar of light, and the gems at her ears and on her weapon hilts glowed, the only real color I had seen in this place.
She had her staff and sword in hand and seemed to be fighting, although against what I could not guess. As I made my way towards her I caught sight of two lightly-glowing wings flickering behind her, and after a moment I realized that I was seeing Hatcher’s knives; the pair were back-to-back, and were giving a very passionate impression of fighting for their lives against nothing.
As I closed with Provine Sael I swung hard in a horizonal stroke, and although I saw nothing between us, the blade hit what felt like flesh, biting deep. I stopped and lashed out at the empty air, connecting with something with nearly every stroke. No attacks came in response, and after a half dozen strokes Provine Sael motioned with her staff to me to come to her as she backed away.
I followed her glowing figure until my ears suddenly popped and I was standing in the passage, Hatcher, knives in hand, just ahead of the Dellian.
“That was seriously strange,” Hatcher proclaimed as I gratefully breathed air that felt real.
A moment later Hunter and Burk were suddenly beside us.
“Well, that didn’t work,” the ‘slinger announced.
“It didn’t fail, either,” Provine Sael replied, leaning her staff against the wall so she could get her crest of hair back into place.
“What were you fighting?” I asked Hatcher, who had a gash on her left shoulder. “I couldn’t see anything, but my sword was hitting someone.”
“Weird little bastards that looked like they were made out of tar,” She checked her knives, which were unmarked, and then sheathed them. “Taller than me, shorter than Provine Sael. What were you fighting?”
“A tall, thin creature with no nose, antlers, and knees that bent backwards.”
“I faced one of those, too,” Burk announced, producing a stone axe. “It was using this.”
Hunter whistled. “You see that?” he asked Provine Sael.
“I do.” She studied the axe without touching it. “This is…strange.”
“To put it mildly.”
“How about a little more explanation?” Hatcher demanded. “What is going on in the barrow? It felt like we were at the bottom of a well.”
Hunter took a swig from his flask as Provine Sael examined a cut on my arm. “We’re right, is one thing.” He rubbed his mustache with the back of his hand, staring into the darkness in the barrow. “This place is…well…I can’t explain it neatly to you. Let’s just say that the tidal wave of power the Dusmen are hoping to unleash is starting to…accumulate here. And with it, the effect it will bring.”
“What, a few skinny things with horns and flint weapons?” I asked. “The Legions will make short work of them.”
“Do you know what a ‘tun’ is?”
“A big wine barrel, I could easily take a bath in one.”
“Right. Now, think of what the Dusmen have set in motion as liquid, and the total effect would fill a half-dozen tuns, maybe more. And what we just encountered is a single pint mug.”
I pondered that. “That would be a lot,” I said slowly.
“A watered-down pint,” Provine Sael noted, moving to Burk. “Those unformed things Hatcher and I were facing are a good way from their final shape or abilities.”
“They’re bringing another army,” Burk said uneasily.
“An inhuman army whose powers are uncertain,” Hunter nodded. “The Dusman aura is intended to let these newcomers tell friend from foe, although I doubt that is going to work out as planned. Moreover, in this barrow they are but a shadow of themselves. What they will be when the stars, seasons, and place all arrive in careful symmetry is another thing entirely.”
“Worse, they will appear out of thin air,” Provine Sael knelt to examine Hatcher’s shoulder.
“So what are they?” I asked.
Hunter shook his head. “I don’t know. They could be Elder Ones, or creatures they fought, or creatures they created…anything, really.” He took a swig from his flask. “Or…this is just wild speculation, but the First Folk vanished at one point. What if this entire business is how they left?”
“That’s absurd,” Provine Sael straightened and stowed her tools. “You can’t move through time.”
“They say you can’t move objects through occupied space,” Hunter shrugged. “Now we know better.”
Provine Sael frowned, but hesitated. “The two are vastly different in many particulars.”
“True. But the boundaries of reason are not as fixed as at least I used to think.”
The Dellian shook her head. “This sort of speculation serves nothing. We will destroy the dolman, and the Dusmen will have to find a new alignment to try again.”
“To do that, we need a better plan,” Hunter carefully stowed his flask.
Provine Sael took up her staff and tapped it into the palm of her left hand. “We need common sight and the ability to stay together. Rope?”
The ‘slinger shook his head. “Dead too long, and not enough original substantive being. Blood is out: that’s the First Folk’s first choice for everything.”
“Can’t we just hold onto one another?” Hatcher asked.
“I wouldn’t want to be holding onto Burk or Grog when the steel starts to sing,” Hunter noted somberly. “Although it is a generally workable idea.”
“It is,” Provine Sael said slowly. “Hatcher is onto something. Hunter, how many flasks do you have?”
“Hmmm? Just this one.” He produced it.
“How long have you had it?”
He shrugged. “Years.” His eyebrows suddenly knitted. “You…yes, I see.” He scratched his cheek. “A simple road, and it might work.”
“If it does not, we just come back here,” Provine Sael nodded. “We have time.”
“Who is the anchor?”
“I will be,” Provine Sael said thoughtfully. “Technically I hold all of your oaths, so we can add an emotional stratum in addition to the physical. I will give my earrings to Grog and Burk and take their Guardsmen bracers, give my sword to you, your flask to Hatcher, Hatcher’s…Hatcher, how long have you had your tools?”
“The core pieces, a decade at least. Some were my uncle’s.”
“I will take most of Hatcher’s oldest tools, while the rest go to you, Hunter.”
“And you take my sword, I’ve had it since I was a student, and you’ll need a sword.” Hunter nodded. “It should work, at least for a bit, and a short while is all we need. The barrow is constrained by the physical dimensions of the actual structure.”
“How are we going to smash the dolman?” Burk asked. “We left the tools on the cart.”
“Different job, different tools,” Hunter said, a touch distracted. “Leave that axe behind, Burk.”
“Am I missing anything?” Provine Sael asked Hunter.
“Not that I can see,” he said slowly, obviously thinking hard. “We’re down to old-school basic principles here. Associative auras, powers of affiliation…this is folk wyrd.”
“The First Folk created the folk wryd,” Provine Sael removed her earrings. “And the barrow is their realm, at least to a degree.”
I stopped listening, mainly because I only understood about half of what they were saying, and because
I had more important things to think about. After a bit I took a knee by Hatcher. “If I fall, let Master Horne know, and tell him I upheld the honor of the barracks; in this is Moina’s address, let her know, too, please.” I passed her the stoppered horn that held the address and my letter of manumission.
“Grog, we’re going to get through this,” Hatcher whispered.
“We will, but, well, just in case.”
She hugged my neck, and I patted her back. Standing, I stretched and took deep breaths. Provine Sael handed me one of her blue earrings and I carefully tucked it into my pouch before giving her my Red Guard bracer. “I’ll lead,” I told Burk. “Watch my back.”
He nodded and punched me on the shoulder, and I hit him back.
A fighter who goes into the pit expecting to die is seldom wrong; when I crossed into the strange netherworld of the barrow the second time I had no intention of dying; instead, I was determined to get to the dolman, no matter what. I didn’t understand all the arcane stuff and complexities, but I didn’t need to: all I had to understand was that the Empire was in danger if that dolman didn’t get broken. I was a Red Guardsman, perhaps just a lesser sort as Red Guardsmen go, but that still meant a lot, and the time had come for me to pay back the honor they had shown me.
This time I saw what Provine Sael and Hatcher had been fighting: a wave of darker blackness that rose up to meet me, sprouting clawed hands, horns, and fang-crowded mouths. I hacked at the wave, feeling the impact, and then it was splitting into figures around five feet tall that sort of looked like they were made of wet tar. How they looked did not matter, as steel affected them as it would any unprotected flesh, and I hacked my way forward. The things were fairly mindless but numerous, and while it took no great skill to chop them down, there were always more.
Burk moved up on my left as my progress slowed, and brief flickers of dull light slew the foe in threes and fours, Hunter and Provine Sael supporting us, I figured, but I wasted no time on considering it. The creatures vanished when they were cut down, which at least preserved our footing.