“His tunnel? He has you working to make a way to escape the underworld?”
“That is his aim,” Jute said. “Although we would join our ancestors before we release such evil upon the world. The gods locked the Bollargs in the underworld for good reason.”
“How did you escape?” Brianna asked.
“I was selected,” Jute said. “Many of us wanted to attack the Bollarg, or at least sacrifice ourselves before carrying out his foul work, but Hammert and Babaz believed that your wizard could save them. They convinced most of the others, and I was selected to escape, since I know your world better than most of my kin.”
“But how did you get away?” Brianna asked.
“We are watched, mostly by the Gorslings, but they are not intelligent creatures. None of the beings in the underworld are clever. Powerful, yes, savage, most definitely, but not intelligent, which is why they can't dig the tunnel themselves. Whenever they try, they inevitably cause the stone to collapse on top of them. So I was able to hide in a small shaft when the two groups were exchanged. One half of our number would work, while the other half was kept far away from the tunnel. Then when the first group was exhausted, they switched us. The second group would be taken up and made to dig, while the first group was held captive.”
“You did this for a year?” Brianna asked.
“Has it only been a year?” Jute asked, and there was pain in his voice. “I had to sneak back to the mining shafts that the old ones had dug. I escaped back into the grand caverns of Ostenglaros. I searched endlessly for a way out. I couldn’t risk digging. If I was heard and caught again, all my kin would suffer for the crime. So I searched until I found a fissure in the mountain. It took all my strength to climb through the crack, and I broke my arm in the process. When I finally escaped, I had no idea where I was or where to go. I’d had no food or water for days. My strength was simply gone, and I resigned myself to facing my ancestors as a failure.”
“But you didn’t fail. You escaped.”
“Yes,” Jute said. “And here you are. It is fate. When is the wizard joining us? Together we shall free my kin and ensure that Straggah never finds his way out of the underworld.”
“Zollin isn’t here,” Brianna said. “It’s just Sorva and me.”
“Has something happened to the wizard?” Jute asked.
“No,” Brianna said, feeling her face flush as she struggled to answer Jute’s questions. “He’s fine. In fact, when I left him, he was in the Northern Highlands helping your kin there.”
“What is happening to our home?” Jute asked, his normal bravado forgotten.
“I don’t know,” Brianna said as she struggled with a sickening sense of guilt. “I needed to get out of the forest and away from the mountains. I’m traveling south to see about a dragon.”
Jute began to grumble under his breath.
“If I hadn’t come when I did, you’d be dead.”
“Dwarves don’t die easily,” Jute said.
“Well, I might surprise you. I saved Zollin from the underworld when he was trapped after defeating the witch. I can find a way to save your kin, but you aren’t going anywhere. That arm of yours needs time to heal.”
“I’d rather cut it off than be left behind,” Jute growled.
“You would only slow me down,” Brianna said.
“Don’t count on it,” Jute growled. “Besides, you’ll need my help to find the dwarves.”
“Fine, but if you’re coming with me, then we need to set the bone in your arm and immobilize it. I won’t have you so hurt that you can’t make it back out.”
“I can do anything you can do,” Jute said angrily.
Brianna merely held her hand up and let her fingers burst into flame. She had to force herself not to laugh out loud—the look on the dwarf’s face was priceless.
“Anything I can do?” she teased.
“Just fix my arm. We’ve wasted enough time,” Jute grumbled.
Chapter 7
The soldiers outside the king’s private quarters were finally coordinating their efforts to break into the room. Their combined weight as they threw their shoulders into the door was making the spears that Lorik had used to brace the door bend. They would snap soon, but Lorik wasn’t concerned about the soldiers—he was looking for his swords. The Swords of Acromin were his by right; he had earned them by climbing the King Tree. Issalyn said that they were in the king’s dressing room, but she was wrong. Lorik felt the sting of betrayal yet again. She had lied, and he shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was.
He came back into the sleeping chamber, which was a wide room with large windows. A fireplace in one wall and some elaborate paintings were the only furnishing in the room other than the huge poster bed that was now covered in the king’s blood. Lorik snatched up the spears and had to pry them from the door where their sharpened points had sunk into the wood.
The door burst open, and four men came sprawling into the room. Lorik didn’t hesitate. He held a spear in each hand, stabbing down on two men at once, the spears making killing strokes. Then almost as quickly, he snatched them up again, slashing one at the first of the soldiers to regain his feet and running the second one into the the stomach of the other man, who was just on his knees.
Blood covered the floor as more soldiers rushed to get into the room. The men were desperate to save their king and had no idea they were already too late. Lorik knew he would have to deal with the soldiers, and for many, death would be the only argument they would understand. Yettlebor’s personal guard had been his most loyal followers from Baskla, so Lorik rationalized that he wasn’t killing his own countrymen. The soldiers didn’t have to die, but they had chosen to stay with an imposter king and carry out his orders, including the capture and subsequent torture of Lorik. If they fought him, they would die; it was as simple as that.
The soldiers scrambling into the room had their swords drawn, but they were not prepared for the ferocity of Lorik’s attack. He slashed and stabbed over and over, his movements so swift and each stroke so deadly that the soldiers hardly had time to think of defending themselves. A pile lay heaped just inside the room, before the soldiers outside began to hesitate.
“Come to me, you craven dogs!” Lorik bellowed. “Fight for your false king and taste my righteous fury.”
But the soldiers outside the sleeping chamber didn’t come in. They readied themselves and waited, knowing that Lorik would have to come out at some point; then they might have the upper hand. Lorik’s weapons were slippery with blood, so he cast them aside and snatched up the king’s bedclothes to wipe his hands on. Beside the bed was a bottle of wine still half-full. He picked it up and drank. The wine was rich and warm, sending a wave of heat down through his body. Yet it was delicious to Lorik and more refreshing than he had expected.
He bent down and picked up a fallen sword. The soldiers carried simple weapons. The blade was shaped like a long dagger, angling toward the tip and sharpened on both edges. He swung the weapon from side to side, getting a feel for its weight. He was holding the sword in his right hand and the bottle in his left. He took another long drink just as Spector came back into the room.
“They are dead,” he pronounced.
“But the killing isn’t over,” Lorik said, pointing out the door. “There are more waiting to die.”
“I shall oblige them,” Spector hissed, his voice barely a whisper, and yet it was chillingly audible.
Lorik watched as his friend’s ghostly form floated out of the room. He wasn’t surprised when he heard screams. Stone had truly become a creature to be feared. The young warrior had never been fearful to look at. Only his low-slung knives hinted at just how dangerous he really was. But since his transformation, he looked like a dark angel of death. Lorik heard weapons falling to the floor and men rushing down the steps. Some stayed, raising their weapons to fight, but as Lorik stepped to the door, he saw Spector spinning into action. The wraith rushed forward, darting first one way, then spin
ning in the opposite direction. The twin blades that never seemed to leave Spector’s hands slashed around the soldiers’ defensive gestures, but they seemed slow, almost clumsy. Lorik couldn’t tell if it was his friend’s speed or the soldiers’ fear that made them such easy targets.
The fighting only lasted a few moments, and then there was no one left to fight. The soldiers that survived retreated down the stairs, their faces pale with fright. Lorik couldn’t help but laugh. He had known that coming to Ort City and proclaiming his right to the throne of Ortis might result in fighting, but he had not expected the struggle to be so easy. He finished the last of the wine in one long pull from the bottle, then he cast the empty container against the wall. The glass shattered, and the remnants left a dark red spatter against the wall. Lorik thought the wine looked more like blood than what dripped from Spector’s blades.
“What now?” the wraith hissed.
“I need my swords,” Lorik said. “Go find them.”
He felt the wave of anger from his friend, who was still hungry for more fighting, but Lorik knew that Spector would do as he was told. The ghostly form would be able to search the castle without being seen or heard unless he wanted to be. And although Lorik would have welcomed more fighting, he didn’t want to kill any more people than he had to. He slumped into a nearby chair, thinking about Issalyn’s body hanging from the castle walls.
It seemed like such a waste to him. The woman he had known and loved was smart, independent, and caring. He couldn’t imagine what had made her change so completely. He knew she was ambitious and he couldn’t really fault her for that. It would be difficult to go from being a highly regarded queen to simply being a lover, even if they were in a virtual paradise with the Drery Dru. But to give herself to the fat, oafish, cowardly king just to regain her title and possessions seemed insane to Lorik. If she had trusted him and worked with him, she could have had all that and more. When she had left the Wilderlands, it had been to go and see Yettlebor on Lorik’s behalf. He couldn’t believe that he had been so blind. His love had hindered his judgement, and it had cost him dearly. He vowed to himself that he wouldn’t make that mistake again.
It was dawn before Spector returned. The ghostly wraith glided into the room and waited. Outside roosters were crowing, and Lorik went back into the sleeping chamber and looked out at the bodies hanging from the window. Already there was a foul smell of decay, and carrion birds were circling overhead. A few of the bravest had come down, landing on the bodies, and begun to pick at Issalyn and Yettlebor’s flesh with their sharp beaks.
People were gathering in the streets of the city, pointing up at the bodies and wondering what had happened. Lorik grinned. He wanted to shout that he had happened, that Lorik the Avenger was now their king, but he didn’t want to be seen without his swords. He could address the city soon enough. First, he needed to find his weapons, and he had one more person to deal with. Ulber the mercenary had shot Stone with the arrow that severed the young warrior’s spine and gave Yettlebor the courage to slay Vera. Lorik would hunt the mercenary down and make him pay for his crimes before he could rest or proclaim himself victorious.
He stalked back out of the room and pointed his dull sword at Spector.
“Show me.”
The wraith turned and glided back down the stairs. Lorik followed and should have been cautious, knowing that the king’s soldiers waited for him, but Spector attacked the guards before Lorik even saw them. He came out on the next floor and found the wraith already at work. The soldiers stabbed at Spector with their spears, but the wraith’s body was nothing but smoke. Their blades passed right through his trail of dark cloud, and his arms and shoulders moved so fast that the soldiers couldn’t catch him with their weapons.
Lorik charged toward the men, who were massed behind a makeshift barricade. They fell back before him, their swords held out like frightened children. He batted several aside with one swipe of his borrowed sword and then he slashed into them. Unlike the guards from the fight upstairs, these soldiers had donned armor and carried shields. Their training kicked in, despite their fear, and the fighting was more vicious. Lorik was flesh and blood, so the soldiers did their best to concentrate on him, but ignoring Spector played right into the wraith’s hands. Lorik’s strength beat back the attacks that came his way, and his sword was nicked and bent from his powerful blows. The soldiers’ armor only prolonged their deaths. While Lorik’s blade didn’t penetrate the armor or shields very well, the strength of his vicious strikes and slashes broke bones and knocked the men off their feet. His boots were almost as deadly as the sword he wielded. Any man who fell at Lorik’s feet was stomped. A kick to the ribs broke bones, but a boot heel to the head, even one protected by a helmet, was usually fatal.
There were terrible screams as the men fought. Spector whirled among them, dealing death like a farmer harvesting wheat. The soldiers dropped around him, and Lorik felt his friend’s grim satisfaction with the work of slaying their enemies. It was as if killing the soldiers somehow eased his pain over losing Vera little by little. The darkness inside Lorik reveled in the chaos of the fight. It guided his actions, almost as if Lorik, through the dark magic, knew what was going to happen before it came to pass. He killed dozens of men without so much as a scratch.
After a few frantic moments of fighting, the soldiers broke. This time they fled the castle, taking many of the servants and courtiers with them. Lorik felt the panic from the people running away, and the rage he had let burn inside of him for so long in the darkness began to fade a little.
“This way,” Spector said, gliding toward another set of stairs.
Lorik followed, not paying attention to where they were going. Before he knew it, they were in a room that Lorik recognized. It was a small room but very well appointed. It was just outside the large feasting hall, where the King of Ortis kept his throne and saw to the needs of his kingdom. Lorik, Stone, and a small band of Ortisians had fought the witch’s army in that very room, but now it was restored to the splendor that only kings enjoyed.
A tall mirror stood near one wall, and opposite the mirror was a suit of armor. The Swords of Acromin had been added to the armor, and Lorik felt a thrill as he drew his familiar weapons and admired the craftsmanship of the legendary blades. Acromin had been a great king according to the Drery Dru and had forged the weapons himself. He had led his army against a horde of invading barbarians and then made peace with the forest elves who had suffered under his predecessors. For a hundred years, the Drery Dru and humans lived in peace together, the famous swords passing down from generation to generation. But eventually the humans began to fight among themselves, and the elves were forgotten. When the last of the kings in Acromin’s line died, a band of elves took the swords and planted them inside the King Tree until a ruler worthy enough to unite the elves and humans again could find them.
Lorik had found the swords and had bridged the gap between the human world and the elves. However, after the Witch’s War and the invasion of Norsik Raiders, most Ortisians were more than happy not to dabble in anything other than their mundane daily work. Lorik had yet to actually bring the humans and elves together, but he would soon enough, he vowed.
The swords slid easily into their finely worked leather sheaths, which Lorik hung on his own belt. His thick hips seemed to dwarf the finely crafted swords, but Lorik wanted no other weapons. His armor was formed by the dark magic, but his weapons were cold steel. And that was just the way he wanted it.
“And now?” Spector hissed.
Lorik could feel the wraith’s desire to cleanse his guilt and pain in more blood. He couldn’t blame his friend. Losing Vera had hurt Lorik more than he thought possible. When his parents had died, Lorik had been distraught for weeks, but that pain was nothing compared to Vera’s murder. At least their deaths had come at the end of long, happy lives, he consoled himself, but Vera was still young. She had only truly been happy for the last year while she and Stone built a life for themselve
s after the Witch’s War. And even though Lorik hadn’t held the blade that killed Vera, he felt the weight of guilt for her death. He had failed her, and he knew Stone felt the same way. She had been brave and selfless, but in the end, the imposter king had murdered her. Lorik knew he couldn’t rest until he had dispensed justice to everyone that had a hand in her death.
“We have to find Ulber,” Lorik said.
“That won’t be easy,” said a woman’s voice from the shadows.
Lorik and Spector whirled around to find Kierian lurking nearby. She sat on a padded bench as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Spector moved toward her menacingly, but Lorik stopped him.
“Wait!” he ordered his ghostly friend. “What do you mean?”
“Yettlebor sent him south, along with a large group of soldiers,” Kierian explained. “I think they had orders to secure the southern settlements.”
“How do you know this?” Lorik asked.
“I hear things,” she said nonchalantly. “Like I told you before, people tend not to look into the shadows.”
Lorik felt the darkness inside of him echoing the sentiments of the mysterious woman. She stood up and walked slowly toward him. Lorik was once again reminded of the graceful predator as she approached. He wanted her, and yet he knew he could never let down his guard around her.
“Kierian,” Lorik explained to Spector, “slid that razor blade into our cell.”
The wraith didn’t speak, but Lorik could feel the distrust radiating from his friend.
“I wondered if you knew,” she said.
“I recognized your voice.”
“It’s good to know I left an impression.”
She was standing close to him, too close to be casual. She had to look up at him, and her smile was seductive, but Lorik didn’t move. There would be time for carnal appetites later, he knew, but first he had to secure the city.
“You are certain about Ulber?” he asked.
“They left two days ago, once Yettlebor was certain you were no longer in the city.”
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