Forsaken

by Cebelius

  He got up and reached out to her. "You're competent, know your limits, and do your part. I like that, and I'm glad you're on my team."

  "You promise me you'll make her suffer?" she asked.

  "Presuming we can capture her alive, oh yes. You have my solemn word of honor. She will rue the day she was born, and she'll beg for death long before she gets it."

  Sif nodded, reached out, and took his hand. He pulled her to her feet.

  He'd intended nothing more, but she surprised him by stepping into his arms. The supple leather of her body suit didn't really do much to keep the feel of her from reaching him, and he could tell that she was filling out just a bit. She wasn't a starving waif anymore. She hugged him a moment, then kissed his cheek and reached up with both hands to pull his cowl back up and over his head as she said in a voice clearly not meant for him, "Yes? What do you want?"

  Abram half-turned and saw one of the dwarves had come out and was descending toward them. He realized she had to have at least had a glimpse of the back of his head, but Sif had covered him quickly enough that he doubted it could possibly be more than that.

  It was one of the scholars. She was rather striking, with white hair that had black streaks throughout and green eyes. For a dwarf she was also rather lithe, though that essentially meant she had a build similar to Angie's packed onto a frame that was only a few inches over four feet tall.

  He tilted his head enough to move his cowl, focusing on her as she stopped a few feet above them on the stairs and said, "It's been most of a week, and we haven't actually met. My name is Tyra. I'm a runesmith and enchantress."

  She offered her hand and his eyes flicked to it as he thought for a long moment about whether or not to shake.

  Why not? They've already seen my hands.

  He took her hand, though he kept his grip light.

  She did as well, obviously taking her queue from him. He noticed that she was wearing ornately dyed gloves that seemed to have metal plates sandwiched between layers of leather to reinforce them. They were well-crafted, and he saw a series of runes across the back of her hand, though he couldn't decipher them.

  When he didn't speak, she asked, "You are Abram, correct?"

  "Yes."

  "Your spellcraft was very impressive. May we speak?"

  He glanced toward Sif, then back to Tyra as he said, "I am not the spokesman for my party."

  "This will not be a conversation about Svartheim, but you."

  "In that case, no."

  Tyra opened her mouth, eyes widening in surprise, then closed it with a crest-fallen expression as he stepped past her and marched back up the stairs, noticing as he did so that someone had lit a lantern. The light was spilling out into the vast open space, and he frowned, wondering why they'd do something that might reveal their presence.

  He stepped back into the alcove Sif had carved out for them, followed a moment later by the bergsrå and Tyra, who Abram turned in time to see make eye contact with the dwarven paragon and shake her head. He reached out and touched Angie, shaking her shoulder lightly as he leaned against the wall next to her.

  Brenna nodded at Tyra and spoke, her voice laden with authority.

  "You may not wish to speak of yourself, but we will require at least some information about you and your abilities before we can commit to the assault on Svartheim in your company."

  "I will tell you what spells I plan to use, where, and when. You will not be surprised unless you turn on us," Abram said, annoyed as he felt Angie stirring to wakefulness.

  "That conversation will happen when we know the disposition of the forces inside the dungeon, not before. If you're dissatisfied with this, you can take it up with my employer."

  As he spoke, he glanced at his bars. His mana was recovered, as were most of his hit points. He was still two short, but the twelve hours since his act of blatant stupidity were almost up. Given his mana was replenished, if things turned sour he'd get those last two points from whoever was dumb enough to attack him first.

  "Relax," Angie said, standing and setting a hand on his shoulder.

  "Just so," one of the dwarven smiths said. "We've no intention of makin' threats or pickin' fights with the likes of you. Not after what you showed us yesterday."

  Abram looked the dwarf over. He had black hair and a particularly thick black beard laced with bone beads that capped innumerable braids, each around a half-inch thick. He also had rather striking blue eyes and a huge beak of a nose that bisected his mustache neatly from Abram's perspective.

  "We just wanted to know a bit more about you, as well as your abilities. We figured Tyra'd be the best to ask, but mebbe not. I'm Gunvor, I smith. So's Sigrid, that broken-nosed wench over there. I'm sure you know Brenna by now, and that lunk over there's Ingvar, Sigrid's wife."

  Abram's eyes shifted to a grizzled male dwarf with a brown beard and hair in the middle of putting his armor back on over a sweat-stained gambeson. Laughter at his expense made the rounds as he growled, "Careful, Gunvor. You may know the craft but without me and mine to wield your weapons you'll come up short, just like you did at Heimhall."

  The laughter faded abruptly into uncomfortable looks, and Abram got the impression that while Gunvor's shot had been in fun, Ingvar's had not. Gunvor surprised him though by blowing it off as he said, "Take note: Ingvar hasn't much of a sense of humor."

  "And Gunvor has no pride," Ingvar shot right back. "If you want competent work done, see my wife."

  The laughter rippled to life again, and Abram quirked a brow but otherwise remained still, knowing his cowl revealed nothing.

  "And I am Frode, if we might continue with the introductions."

  Abram glanced over toward a male dwarf with a very short blond beard — it reached no further than his collarbone — and hair the same color that was trimmed into something very close to a crew-cut. He wore a gray robe with brown runic accents on the collar, sleeves, and hem. His eyes were blue, and his face was craggy and worn. His voice spoke of age or heavy tobacco use, one or the other.

  "The rest you can meet later, should they survive what is to come," Brenna said, glancing around at the other dwarves in the space, most of whom were armoring up or otherwise getting ready.

  "Now, tell us how you plan to use our help to retake Svartheim."

  Abram was aware that Brenna wasn't asking Sif, she was asking him. He tilted his head enough to shift his cowl toward Sif as he said, "That depends on what Sif can tell us."

  Sif's eyes grew distant for long moments before she said, "The Mor is still here. She has regained access to Svartheim, but has yet to actually break out to the surface. I can't tell if any of the hobs have escaped into Sub-Cel, but they could technically do so if they passed by ... well, suffice it to say it's not likely any of them have managed to escape."

  As she said this last, she glanced at Angie, who had the presence of mind to simply raise an eyebrow and roll her hand, indicating Sif continue.

  "That said, there seem to be three concentrations. The first surrounds the Mor, and it's by far the largest. She is still taking up the uppermost floors. The second is in the breeding chambers, and we'll have to pass the Mor to even get to those. The last is mostly goblins, and they're on the lowest floor, near the entrance."

  Sif looked at Abram as she added, "Mix is in that group."

  "Mix? Ooooh, I remember. All right, yeah, we'll leave them for last. They won't bother us. So how many are in the Mor's group?"

  Sif tilted her head as she thought about it, then said, "Somewhere between fifty and sixty hobs, maybe twenty goblins."

  "That's way less than there were when we set out," Abram said.

  Sif nodded.

  "I thought you said they hadn't broken out of the mountain yet."

  "They haven't."

  Abram thought about that, then smiled darkly as he murmured, "Dissent is a bitch, isn't it, Mor?"

  "Seven to one isn't great odds when you're the attacking force," Brenna pointed out. "Not even with
a wizard like you in tow."

  "We can make it work. What can you tell us about the area we'll be fighting in?" Abram asked, directing the question at Sif.

  She folded herself down onto her knees, then set a hand on the cave floor. In front of it the stone rippled, then began to rise into what Abram quickly recognized as a diorama, and he smiled.

  "Holy crap, that is awesome," he said as he watched the walls come up, and then long tables, benches, stairs, the works. The detail wasn't perfect, but it was good enough that little stick figures began to dot the space. The dwarves crowded around, faces both bearded and clean-shaven peering down at the little work of art the bergsrå was creating.

  The diorama was sectioned into four distinct areas. The largest by far had the look of a cafeteria or the like, with five long tables flanked by benches taking up much of the space. The main entrance to that area was a broad stairwell that — given how the diorama was laid out — represented the main entrance.

  There was also a spacious kitchen area, another large space that had a bunch of small alcoves attached and was lined with bunks, and a hallway that led off to a pair of rooms on either side, both of which looked like living quarters. Beyond that, the hallway terminated in a stairway that led up, though Sif hadn't detailed what it led to.

  "Most of the hobs are here," she said, pointing toward the open space with the tables. "There are crossbows scattered around the room, and the hobs are armed and armored. I have to assume the Mor knows that we've killed my brother, and she's set up and is waiting. That's her, right now."

  She tapped a figure seated at the head of the long table furthest from the broad stairway that led into the space.

  "She's also got one gnoll wizard left. He's here." She tapped one of the two living areas. "His name is Faz, but I really don't know what kind of magic he can use. I just know that he was the one who sold out his cabal to the Mor, so he's the only one who wasn't put in a slave's collar."

  Abram nodded absently, his eyes playing over the diorama. Eventually he asked, "Do we have to come in through the stairs, or can you open a new passage for us?"

  "I could open a new passage, but the Mor knows that too. She's got hobs listening to the stone. If I start to shift it, she'll know. It doesn't matter if I'm trying to seal them in, but if we try and make a new entrance they'll be ready before we can get through."

  "You mentioned they were trying to tunnel out of Svartheim. Where is that?" Abram asked.

  "Not in this section," Sif said, shaking her head. "It's from one floor down, and it was abandoned and all work stopped a few hours ago. It won't help us get to her."

  Abram took a deep breath, then let it out in a rush as he considered the scenario in front of him.

  "Well, wizard?"

  It was Ingvar that spoke. "This is the part where you tell us what you bring to the battle."

  "Fair enough," Abram said as he glanced up at the dwarf, now armored head to foot save for his gauntlets and helmet. As he looked, he saw the other man popping his knuckles idly with his thumbs.

  Before he could speak again though, Hantu's text appeared, and he hesitated a moment to read.

  'Best you not mention that you can spell swap. To my knowledge I am unique on Celestine, so too my ability to shape your magic may be unique. We do not trust these dwarves. Best not reveal all.'

  Sound advice, he thought.

  He mentally called up his character sheet, and with it as a guide said, "The fireball you've seen won't be that much use because it takes too long to charge, but I have another weaker variant that's instant cast. Explodes in a twenty-foot radius. I also have drain lightning I can direct at up to two targets at a time. I heal as the target dies. Also available are runic traps that spawn tentacular horrors. They'll grab and hold anything in reach while tearing them apart. I use those for battlefield control. I can cast images on anyone, which will spawn illusions that move in random directions but will otherwise copy the original. I can grease any surface or person with a low viscosity, highly flammable liquid, and I have a spell I plan to use to capture the Mor. It will hold any target I designate in a cage of air."

  "How much of that can you do before you're tapped?" Tyra asked, sounding excited.

  Abram shrugged marginally as he said, "All of it. Repeatedly."

  "Just what are you?" Frode asked, his bushy eyebrows coming together as he stared hard at the deeper darkness beneath Abram's cowl. "You sound male, so you can't possibly be an eldritch. You either have tremendous magical reserves, or a range of affinities, to be able to manage so much without a staff."

  "Presumin' he's not lyin' through his teeth to us," Ingvar said sourly.

  "I'm a wizard, and that's really all you need to know, isn't it, Frode?" Abram asked quietly. He chose to ignore Ingvar entirely. He didn't want to make threats Sif wouldn't let him enforce, and getting into a war of words didn't interest him. Not with the Mor so close.

  Once she was under his control, he could deal with Ingvar, presuming the idiot lived through the assault.

  "The biggest problem we'll have then will be crossbowmen," Brenna said with a pointed look at Ingvar as he opened his mouth. He looked at her sourly, then nodded and said, "Our shields can handle the bolts, but this wide open area gives the hobs too much range and cover to shoot from. It'd be easy with the numbers described for us to get locked down at the top of the stairs and wiped out."

  Abram didn't interrupt, but he had to agree. The odds were terrible if they came up through the stairs.

  He had an idea that would allow them to get the drop on the Mor, but withheld it as he listened to the dwarves. He didn't necessarily want his side to come through unscathed. He hadn't targeted them, but he was willing to bet that the dwarves in this party were considerably stronger than Lygi and her henchmen had been, which meant if they all survived they were more than strong enough to overpower him and take Svartheim entirely for themselves.

  Given their elder had been not only willing, but downright eager to send these people along, and that she apparently had some sort of nigh infallible sense of exactly what would be required to accomplish a given task, and that she'd sent smiths and scholars that were clearly meant to serve after the battle was over ... it all hinted at the dwarves winding up with full control of Svartheim if he did his best to minimize casualties.

  Now that Abram had his affinities, victory here would be as easy as having Sif seal the entire space, putting the Mor in a modified Air Prison to preserve her, and flooding the whole floor with poison gas. No muss, no fuss, no fight, almost zero risk. But that wouldn't really get him what he wanted.

  So instead, he let them discuss their various plans and held his own in reserve. He wanted to win, but he needed to win by a razor-thin margin, and he needed it to look like a genuine best effort. That way he could control the forces that survived ... on both sides.

  Now that I think about it, I might even let the first assault fail, then use my own strategy to clean up the rest.

  Hantu's text scrolled, 'You are playing a dangerous game, Abram.'

  Where have you been, that you're just now noticing this?

  'Abram, take it on faith that I have quite a bit more experience with evil wizards than you do. The sort of maneuver you're contemplating never works out well. I don't fault your decision not to simply flood the area with poison and so skip the battle ... but however you do choose to engage, heed my advice: never fight a battle you aren't sure you can win, never fight for anything BUT a win, and never, EVER fight at less than your best.'

  "Abram?"

  "Huh?"

  He glanced up, saw that everyone was looking at him, and scowled as he thought, What did I miss?

  He read Hantu's transcript of the relevant portions of the conversation that he hadn't been paying attention to, then said, "Sure, I can do that. No problem."

  He read the transcript again as he thought about his familiar's advice. He couldn't fault it. As far as rules to live by went, it was pretty solid. The
plan the dwarves had come up with wasn't half bad either. Might even work. He nodded decisively as he added, "I'll give it everything I've got."

  27

  That Which Gives Us Mor

  The planning went on for another two hours, and there were some serious arguments before it was all said and done.

  In the end though, Abram got his way on two crucial details. The first was that Sif wouldn't be participating in the battle and the four trades would be left behind to guard her.

  As it turned out, Frode and Tyra both had some small facility at battle magic, but their skills and mana pool were both inconsequential when it came to the scale of the fight ahead. All of the true dwarven battle mages had been sent with — and died in — the ill-fated campaign against the broodmother. In a similar vein both smiths could do more than work metal with their hammers, but they weren't truly fighters, and unlike the dedicated warriors didn't have full suits of armor to wear into combat. Gunvor had another role, but even he was supposed to fall back to Sif once the fighting started.

  He found an unlikely ally in his argument — particularly with the smiths — in the form of Ingvar, who simply didn't want incompetents mucking up his well-laid plans.

  The second and more controversial point was the preservation of the Mor. In the end he made it clear that if any of the dwarves killed her, that dwarf would die. At one point Ingvar had been so enraged that Abram got ready to defend himself, but Sif interjected, reminding the dwarves that their obligations included obedience, and Abram's wish was born of her own.