“Before there’s any killing, let us talk for a few minutes more. There’s nothing to be lost in that, is there? My name is Tarn Bellowgranite. My father was the thane of the Hylar, and now I lead the remnants of our clan.”
“Any breath spent in speech with a mountain dwarf is a waste of air,” retorted the other.
“At least he’s still wasting breath instead of blood,” murmured Belicia, speaking under her breath and tightening a grip on Tarn’s arm. He drew strength from her touch, forcing himself to control the emotions that once again threatened to boil over.
“Waste a little more of it, then. Tell me your name,” coaxed Tarn.
“I am Katzynn Bonebreaker-and my surname declares the fate of any mountain dwarf who meets my hammer!” He raised the heavy weapon, spinning it easily from one hand to the other.
“Make the challenge,” growled Barzack, “or, by Reorx, I’ll fight him without any ceremony!”
Tarn too was weary of the pleasantries. “Well, there is one among us who shares your sentiments-his mother was snatched and enslaved by your people. He never saw her again. So you both have a grudge, a blood feud.”
“There are blood feuds throughout our clans,” declared the hill dwarf. “What of it?”
“Just this: We are not going back to the mountains, not without a fight. A fight would kill many of you, as well as many of us. Instead, let our champion fight you or any hill dwarf you name. Let the winner decide his people’s fate.”
The hill dwarf scoffed. “None can last more than five minutes against me. That is my reputation. How do we know you will keep your word when your champion dies?”
Tarn flushed. “Don’t be so sure who will die! Either way, let us swear an oath to Reorx. The loser will abide by the terms of the pledge, or the curse of our god will come down upon his tribe.”
“Reorx. . father god to all dwarves,” mused the hill dwarf. “In truth, such an oath would be binding, for the consequences of breaking such a vow are too dire to comprehend.”
“In that case, let the matter be fought!” declared Barzack, loudly, “if there is one among you with the courage to face me!”
“I’ll be glad to fight you!” snarled the hill dwarf chieftain, “but first let us make this vow.”
Katzynn Bonebreaker and another hill dwarf advanced to the edge of the bridge. Tarn and Barzack moved forward, and the oath was sworn. Barzack, Tarn, and two hill dwarves each placed their hands over the blade of a sword as terms of the fight were outlined: the duel would last until the death-or the almost inconceivable capitulation-of one of the contestants. No physical aid could come from any other dwarves, and the two contestants had to remain on the bridge until the fight ended.
“That should take about five minutes,” said Katzynn Bonebreaker with a malicious grin. Barzack met his eyes fiercely.
The dwarves of both sides moved off the bridge as Katzynn and Barzack faced each other. The mountain dwarf bore his huge axe, while the hill dwarf faced him with his equally large hammer. Both were hulking and fierce fellows, splendid examples of dwarven warriors. As Tarn watched them, he was struck by the realization that there were more similarities than differences between the two combatants.
The two pair studied each other for several heartbeats as the crowds on both sides of the gorge began to call encouragement.
“Kill him, Katzynn!” cried one bellicose hill dwarf, a female.
“Feed him to the fishes, Barzack!” countered one of the mountain dwarf matrons. The shouts quickly rose to a roar, drowning out the river and the wind. Tarn felt the tension all around him, and his own blood began to pound. He raised his fist and shook it angrily, barely conscious of Belicia’s grip tightening on his arm. This time her touch did not pacify him.
Barzack raised his axe and charged while the hill dwarf crouched and swung his hammer in a low arc. The two weapons met in an explosion of sparks, steel clanging against steel. Shouts and cries intensified from both sides, dwarven voices raised in a hoarse, bloodthirsty din. The force of the first contact knocked both fighters backward, but Katzynn Bonebreaker recovered quickly to rush forward, twirling the hammer in great circles around his head.
The mountain dwarf ducked under to slash viciously upward with his sharp-edged axe. Somehow his opponent spun out of the way, then Barzack had to fling himself forward to avoid a backswing that would certainly have crushed his spine. Their momentum carried the dwarves apart, and when they turned to face each other again, they had reversed positions. Mouths agape, they drew deep breaths of air.
More shouts of encouragement, building to a roar that rumbled like thunder through the mountain valley. “Kill him! Kill him!” Tarn found himself shouting the same, unaware that Belicia had released his arm. He shook both his fists, bellowing in a dry rasp.
Now it was Barzack who stood at the far end of the bridge, as if protecting the approach to the village, and Katzynn with his back to the mountain dwarves as he regarded his scowling opponent. The hill dwarf stepped forward slowly, swinging his hammer easily before him, while the mountain dwarf raised his axe defensively and took a step backward. Suddenly, however, Barzack lunged at his enemy, and there was another tremendous collision.
Neither fighter gave ground, legs spread, feet firmly planted as they bashed at each other again and again. Their faces were distorted, eyes narrowed to slits as sweat streamed down their foreheads and their heavy weapons rose and fell. One would lunge and the other yield, then one would push back and the other falter. The sounds of the clash echoed in the deep gorge, continuing as the combatants stopped once again to catch their breath. Both gasped for air now, the sweat trickling down their faces.
Tarn was jumping up and down, wrapped up in the frenzy. Like others, he drew his sword, waving the weapon in the air, hurling insults at the despised enemies across the gorge, shouting advice to the mountain dwarf champion. He wasn’t aware of what he was saying, but it didn’t matter. Words were swallowed up in the tumult of hate. All around him the Hylar were swept up in battle rage, in the fury and lust for blood.
Surprising Katzynn, Barzack got off a good swing, and though the hill dwarf stumbled away, blood oozed from a deep gash in his thigh. The wounded warrior had a look of shock on his face, and cheers resounded from the Hylar. On their side, the villagers gasped as their wounded favorite fell back, barely blocking a series of powerful blows. They had never seen Katzynn so harried. Finally the two duelists paused again to collect themselves. Now the shouts had faded somewhat, replaced by gasps, muttered prayers, and hoarse whispers of fear.
The two dwarves closed in to resume the terrible battle. They swung their weapons, then clutched each other, too close for axe or sword. They grappled and punched, clawing at each other’s beards and eyes, kicking and jabbing. Katzynn managed to grab the slender gold chain that Barzack wore around his neck and pulled it tight, choking the Hylar. The mountain dwarf was able to break away, but his antagonist snapped the chain and the three jewels that decorated the gold disks went flying. Barzack, clawing at his throat to regain his breath, spared the jewels a mournful look as they scattered across the road.
First the hill dwarf had the advantage, then the mountain dwarf. They circled back to their original positions, then wheeled, fought, wheeled again, ending up sideways on the bridge, each with his back against one of the low side walls. Blood spilled down Katzynn’s flanks and legs, pouring from several deep wounds, while Barzack staggered from the repeated hammer blows that seemed to cover his body with bruises. Both dwarves moved in a daze, using both hands to wield weapons that now seemed too heavy to lift. Impossibly, the fight had gone on for more than an hour.
Once more they broke apart and paused. Tarn no longer felt confident that Barzack would win, but there was no way he could intervene, having sworn the oath to Reorx.
Again the two charged each other, and again Barzack’s axe carved a deep wound, this time in Katzynn’s shoulder. The mountain dwarf, sensing victory, thrust forward, axe raised for a
final, killing blow. The hill dwarf was slumping, his hammer dangling uselessly at his side, and the end seemed near.
But from somewhere deep inside himself Katzynn Bonebreaker found the strength to act. He managed to lurch away from Barzack’s blow, bringing his hammer up and around with a powerful swipe. The steel head of the formidable weapon slammed full-force into Barzack’s helmet, bending the metal shell, crunching sickeningly into bone and flesh.
Soundlessly Barzack fell, his skull crushed. Katzynn, bleeding from numerous wounds, swayed wearily over his vanquished foe, staring down at the fallen mountain dwarf.
The valley had fallen silent, the cheers fading away in the presence of death. Numbly, Tarn stepped forward, looking at the lifeless form of his champion, his friend. Echoes of the fight, of hatred and rage, left him feeling utterly drained. It didn’t seem real, or even important, who had been slain-he believed he would have felt the same emptiness and shame either way.
Quiet sobbing came from his side. Belicia-he had forgotten her-was down on her knees. “He sacrified himself,” she said softly, “for nothing.”
His eyes met the dull gaze of the victorious hill dwarf, who was also watching Belicia. Tarn pulled her to her feet, put his arm around her, and turned to head back, to the mountains, to certain death for his clan. An oath had been sworn.
He felt a strong hand on his shoulder and instinctively reached for his dagger. Another hand, Belicia’s, kept him from drawing the weapon, and he was turned around by Katzynn Bonebreaker. Tarn was surprised to see tears in the victorious warrior’s eyes. A scrap of gold chain still hung from his hand, and wordlessly the hill dwarf extended it to Tarn.
Tarn took the piece of chain as the hill dwarf stepped to the side, his expression twisted with pain and torment.
Then he threw his great hammer over the wall, saying nothing as the bloodstained weapon spun down into the depths.
Only when the hammer had vanished into the churning water did Katzynn make a gesture that invited Tarn and all his clan across the bridge.
Tarn’s gratitude was also mute. He merely nodded, too drained to speak, and led his people forward across the bridge and toward the valley beyond.
Gone
Roger E. Moore
Day 0, night
Dromel had always struck me as one of those annoying entrepreneur sorts who wander the fringes of human society, looking for a secret door to fame and wealth. I had never considered the possibility that he was completely mad, but I considered it now.
“So, what do you think?” he finished. “Are you in?” It had taken him two hours to explain his plan after coming to see me uninvited. The candles had all burned out, and only the oil lantern’s steady glow illuminated my small room. He leaned forward, waiting for my response.
My blank look and silence ought to have discouraged him, but didn’t. “It can’t fail, Red. We’ll come in below the waves in my new ship. Nothing on the island will see us, not even the shadow wights, if they still exist. We can-”
“Wait,” I said. “As I understand the tales, which may or may not be true, shadow wights can-”
“Ah!” He seemed to have expected my response. “They won’t be a problem. My relics will keep them at bay while we do what we need to do. We don’t have to worry about shadow-things.”
“You don’t seem to have much regard for them.”
Dromel spread his hands. “Well, why should I? Who do you know who’s ever seen a shadow wight? I’ve heard the same things you have, I’m sure, that shadow wights make you disappear as if you never existed, if they touch you, but where is the proof? This is going to work, I tell you. We’ll loot the ruins on Enstar and be out of there in less than a week. We’ll come back home with thousands of steels, a mountain of money. You could get out of this rat-infested warehouse and get yourself a real palace, knock elbows with Merwick’s finest and blow your nose on their tablecloths. That’s what you want, and you know it, and now you can have it.”
Dromel didn’t know whale dung about what I really wanted. It was true that the pragmatic but unimaginative folk of Merwick had prejudices against certain nonhu-mans, particularly very large and potentially dangerous races such as minotaurs, like me. I could wander the docks as I liked, but there were many places in town where I was not especially welcome and many estates outside the town’s stone walls where I was not welcome at all. I could live with that, though. Being a good citizen of Merwick was not my ultimate goal.
On the other hand, ship captains in any port would hire me the second they saw my broad, maroon horns. Curiously, even bigoted humans assume that every minotaur is a master sailor and skilled warrior. On that score, they were correct. I knew the western isles of Ansalon like the end of my snout, and I could handle myself in any brawl or battle. What I really wanted was to get my own ship and sail the world of Krynn, explore it and master it, live free as the gulls on the high seas. I had always felt I deserved better in life, which I suppose every minotaur does, and Dromel had just unfolded a plan that might let me sink my hooves into that future and call it mine.
The only drawback was that it was a plan only the insane would consider.
Dromel’s eyes glowed with his vision. “It took me months to work this all out, Red. I’ve covered every step, every possibility. I’ve talked to every sage and scholar who knows anything about Enstar or shadow wights. Tell me if you see a flaw in my plan.”
An argument was pointless. “Where are these relics you found?” I asked, half out of curiosity and half from a lack of anything else to say.
He looked surprised, then quickly reached inside his shirt. He carefully drew out a long, daggerlike item attached to an iron-link necklace, all of which he held out for my visual inspection. The “dagger” was actually an elaborately engraved spearhead with a rag tied over its pointed tip. “This is one of them,” he said with pride. “My good luck charm. I get poked by it now and then, so I usually wrap it up, at least the sharp part.”
The spearhead’s workmanship was superb. It was certainly a legacy of the days before the Chaos War, when ironworkers had the time, talent, and money to craft such fancy weapons. My gaze rested on the runes along the bladed edge. Had the runes seemed to glow for a moment? A prickling sensation ran over my skin. “Where did you get this?” I asked.
“Not every battlefield of old is marked on the maps,” Dromel said with an enigmatic smile. “Let’s say I got lucky on my last trip over to the mainland and brought back some nice souvenirs.”
I hated myself for asking, but I had to know. “How do you know that thing is a real dragonlance?”
“How?” Dromel laughed. He took the necklace off and handed the spearhead to me.
I took the spearhead in my right hand. . and I instantly knew he was telling the truth.
Dromel saw the look on my face. He grinned in triumph. “You feel it,” he said.
I nodded dumbly. My broad right hand shivered with the power flowing out of the spearhead. My palm itched and burned, my clawed fingers twitched. It was Old Magic, from the days when there were real wizards and real priests, and magic was everywhere, like air. It was exactly as the old tale-tellers spoke of it, the ruined men mumbling in their cups, remembering a better and brighter time that had ended just before I was born. The weapon in my hand brought me a taste of all that I had missed. I thought I was awake and alive for the first time in my life. And the future I wanted was within my reach.
“By all the lost gods,” I whispered.
“It came from a footman’s dragonlance,” Dromel said. “We’re lucky there, as we’d never manage with one of the big lanceheads around our necks. Well, you could, but not me.” He paused, then went on in an urgent tone. “This will work, Red. It can’t fail. If there are shadow wights, they can’t possibly get close to us, as long as we have these relics. So, are you in?” His mad, green eyes searched my face for an answer.
Was I in? Perhaps Dromel was mad, but with the spearhead in my hand, I believed in everything. If
his plan worked, our troubles would be gone forever.
If anything went wrong-if Dromel was wrong about the shadow wights-then we, like our troubles, would also be gone forever.
Day 1, late morning
My kind is not prone to literary pursuits, but I am an exception and proud of it (as a minotaur is proud of everything about himself, you see). Hence, I keep this diary. I am aware that documentation of adventures has great value to other adventurers, and the more incredible the exploits, the greater the value. Dromel hopes to find steel coins stacked like mountains in the treasure room of a dead lord’s manor on Enstar. If this whale of a dream turns out to be a little fish, perhaps this work will still bring me some acclaim and a modest income to salve my disappointment. Any steel is good steel.
I awoke at dawn to meet Dromel at Fenshal amp; Sons, a family-owned business that had once been a major shipbuilder in Merwick. The Chaos War and the coming of the great dragons broke the back of the sea trade, with so many ships and ports destroyed. Fenshal amp; Sons had barely survived, restricting the family talents to making fishing boats instead of being the excellent sea traders for which they were justly famed. I found Dromel outside a huge enclosed dry dock where once the labor had gone on even during bad weather and at night. I’d last heard the building was unused and deserted.
Dromel grinned the moment he saw me coming. “You’re a prince, Red,” he said warmly. “Ready to get down to work?”
I eyed the dry dock building. I clearly heard hammering and voices coming from inside it. “I did have a few questions,” I began, scratching my muzzle. “On the issue of the shadow wights, do you have any evidence that-”
Dromel waved the question off with an anxious look on his face. “Uh, let’s talk about all that later,” he said, glancing furtively around us. “First, let’s take a look at my ship. Say nothing to anyone about our destination.” He gave me a big smile that was meant to be reassuring, then led me to a side door, opened it, and showed me inside.
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