Strife & Valor: Book II of The Rorke Burningsoul Saga

by Regina Watts

  A few of the lizards howled in delight and ran to embrace Yelp, who wagged his tail like a pleased canine to receive the adulation of his friends. Despite several glances from Branwen, I kept Strife sheathed for now. I am glad to say that, unlike her, Valeria was diplomatic when it came to towns held hostage by strange witches and the lizard people they controlled.

  “We understand you called for Rorke,” Valeria answered on my behalf, gesturing to me. “That you are holding this town and its innocent people captive to have an audience with him.”

  “Yes,” answered the witch in a droll tone. “With him…not with his companions. But, why, what is that you have there?”

  Gundrygia leaned forward in her seat, gesturing toward the lantern that I had begun to suspect was a sacred artifact seeded among our party by forces with ulterior motives. Valeria lifted it and assured the witch, “Only the light by which we’ve traveled here. It keeps wolves at bay, and worse things, too.”

  “A pity it won’t protect you from my children. Go on! Take the lantern for me.”

  The time for diplomacy passed that fast; that fast, I brandished Strife. It and I pushed between Valeria and the mob of gimlets that rushed her, but too many came from too many sides for my bluff to count. A few of the scoundrels snatched the lantern from her hand; still others disarmed Branwen and carried her new crossbow off to parts unknown. They knew better than to even look at the sword in my hands.

  While the druid cursed them in the name of Anroa, Gundrygia laughed at a high and glimmering pitch.

  “How easy it is when you won’t attack, Burningsoul…they are dear creatures, aren’t they?”

  Sweeping the tip of my blade around us to give us some space from the crowd, I let both women press against my back while I told the witch, “They can be, when they act in accordance with Weltyr’s laws and not at the behest of a wild pagan woman. What are you to them? Why should they have any call to serve you?”

  Her painted lips contorting into a parody of a pout, Gundrygia leaned toward the gimlet hurrying up with the lantern in his hands. “It’s annoying to see how much a man can forget sometimes…but, then again, you were very upset. I created the gimlets, Burningsoul. Gimlets, and many other things besides…none of which, I found, any being of Weltyr’s would accept as one of their own. Even Valeria there”—who tensed to be addressed by name—“should know the evidence of my handiwork.”

  After a steady pause, Valeria looked frankly at her. “The misshapen?”

  Her long fingers tickling her servant between his stubby horns, Gundrygia, who had been smiling into the gimlet’s little face, looked shocked by Valeria’s use of the moniker. “What a sick thing to call them! They are beautiful men. Custom-made for your kind, you know…and you threw them away.”

  “They proved wickeder than we,” Valeria answered, shuddering at the thought of the spider centaurs. “You must indeed be very ancient, Madame, to have such claims as these.”

  “Your line had not yet been established, Rosewallow,” was the witch’s curt response while she took the lantern into her hands. Her eyes danced with a merry light of their own as she adjusted its valve and brought it to life. “Durrow history was not being recorded in full at that time. I speak of a time older than you think. In fact, the durrow had barely settled El’ryh…the first berich dwarves, with whom they were doomed to quarrel, were still excavating the city.”

  This was a common story told of the Nightlands—that its originating settlement, the city-state of Valeria’s origin, had been founded with intention for the durrow and berich to rule it in partnership. A failed power grab ended with that tribe of berich dwarves as the first batch of durrow slaves. As these things went, the practice continued…and with slavery grew El’ryh.

  Valeria’s expression did not shift.

  “Your power is indeed very great to have created whole races with magic alone…and, as the Materna of El’ryh, I can sympathize with your desire to see your people thrive. But we are here on the command of divinity.” Valeria waved between us, adding with a gesture toward Branwen, “Even the druid is a devotee of Anroa, who would not have guided her this far without a purpose to her being here.”

  “You certainly are here by the grace of the gods,” agreed Gundrygia, leaning back in her throne with her long legs akimbo. She rested the lantern in her lap, one hand caressing its glass surface in a way my eye simply could not avoid. The gimlet had curled at her feet and now rested its cheek against her knee, where it wagged its tail occasionally amid her words. “Had it been up to me, the paladin would be here alone. How you burn with questions, Rorke…I see all the same old things bursting up in you, and more. So much more. Like the relics.”

  Branwen shot me a glance I could practically feel through the back of my head. “Should you even be entertaining conversation with her, Rorke?”

  Too late—Gundrygia had snapped my attention with that, and my thirst for information from even a questionable source was irresistible. “What can you tell me about the relics Father Fortisto mentioned? Is that the Lantern of Hamsunt?”

  With a long, predatory smile, Gundrygia cradled the lamp to her breast with one hand and used the other to pull her hem up around her knees. She rose without help from the servant who scrambled off and, effortlessly picking her way down from the throne, the gimlet queen said, “Once upon a time, things were different in the world. Future gods were then just menfolk. Weltyr had a different name. All this was even before my time…before the durrow broke ties with the berichs. Before, even, the elves separated from them.”

  The high elf and dark one exchanged a glance of some interest. For Branwen, the expression was one of surprise that I happened to catch when I looked over my shoulder at them. By the time I looked back, the witch had reached the foot of her throne and now slunk toward me. A raven cawed in the distance, and the noise caught my attention only due to the late hour.

  “There are many treasures in this world…many things that draw their power from the secret threads making up the tapestry of our reality, that same Wyrd net that we embroidered figures might learn to weave by what is called magic. Most such objects are accounted for. Four of particular importance have been lost to the endless chain of mortal fascination, stolen and traded and gambled and killed for. Weltyr made what is now called the Scepter as the manifestation of his purest will; Roserpine’s Ring was crafted to win his love; the Lantern of Hamsunt was said to be Weltyr’s punishment for the very disobedient god; and then, ah…the Casket of Oppenhir. The most important treasure of all.”

  “How can that be when you just mentioned the Scepter of Weltyr was crafted by the All-Father himself?”

  “Because though the Scepter may be useful, immortality is not foremost among its gifts. And I do mean immortality…true immortality with no hint of aging for as long as the individual sleeps in the casket. When the user returns to beds, their aging picks up where it left off. One man has had it for years now—years and years, for at least as many as I slumbered before you woke me up.”

  She looked only at me. Gundrygia still held the lantern in her hands, its light reflecting off the countless gems and chains and bangles and belts of copper and silver and gold with which the gimlets had adorned her. I understood well how it was that she had earned a reputation as some wild faerie queen…but she was not that. I lifted Strife between us knowing that if I could strike her, she would bleed.

  The only issue was whether or not I could land the blow. However it would make me feel to have killed a woman, such complex emotion would have all been part of the aftermath. In the name of defending myself and my companions against her magic, and in protecting the people of Soot, and in obeying the will of Weltyr, I would have stricken her down as readily as any truly dangerous opponent—regardless of sex, race, or beauty, or even my own personal desire.

  And this fearful desire stung me with memories of our embrace while she stood before us, the lantern glowing in her hands.

  “Tell me what you’ve d
one with the people of Soot—then leave, and don’t force me to strike you down before your children.”

  Her smile fell; the wildness of her eyes returned, madness lining her face with the urgency of her petition. “My children are why I’ve done this,” she insisted, the gimlets about her yelping and nodding. While a few darted up to kiss her feet and cling to the hem that had once again fallen down around her ankles, Gundrygia went on. “My creations would not be so foul toward the races of Weltyr if they were accepted. My good gimlets! How sweet they are. Would Yelp hurt you, do you suppose, Paladin?”

  “If I made a move to cut you down right where you stand, these servants of yours would certainly throw themselves to the task of defending you.”

  “Yes, of course. And any human would defend his own home from an attacker. Come now, what a silly thing to say! Look at him.”

  She gestured to the worried gimlet who led us here—who now looked between us and Gundrygia while wringing his little paws. Clearly the creatures were no fans of conflict. Gundrygia went on sternly, “They were cast out of this blasted village, and every other place where men or elves or any other form of mankind dwell, for hundreds of thousands of years! For countless generations they were rejected rather than accepted into so-called civilized societies…and all because they cannot speak the languages of mankinds. Because they simply look too much the part of animals. But look, Paladin! Look!”

  She turned the lantern’s light up as bright as it could go. The gimlets cooed rather than recoiled.

  “Do they shy from the Light of Hamsunt? Are they mere animals? Do they deserve to live hidden in the hills, waiting me to lead them out of their hellish existence? Men will not let them build cities or towns. There are even those in Soot who would kill a gimlet on sight and think nothing more of it than ridding their cellars of a rodent.”

  Her hard affect softened then. She regarded me tenderly. “But you think of it, Burningsoul…you think of much.”

  “I think the problems that the gimlets face is no call for doing what’s been done here. What have you done with the people of Soot?”

  “Nothing they haven’t done to themselves.”

  Gritting my teeth, I shouted, “Speak, you harpy! Give me the lantern and release the town, or face the wrath of Weltyr!”

  Tipping her head with a wicked laugh, Gundrygia slithered back into the crowd of gimlets that quickly formed around her. “You barely understand the wrath of Weltyr, Burningsoul…you barely understand yourself.”

  Behind her, the pile of furniture and gold twitched as though alive.

  I’d heard tales of golems—the name most often given to semi-autonomous products of powerful magi with ancient means and cryptic purposes—but I had never seen one for myself. The towering, broad-shouldered form that rose up from the collection of valuables was something it would have taken most magical artisans weeks, maybe months to create. For Gundrygia, it was nothing: a matter of will and of direction of heart. Soon, non-living things were made alive. It was a perverse mockery of Weltyr’s gift, this artificial life bestowed to a pile of objects. It took a thundering step forward while the gimlets went skittering away amid a series of high barks.

  Gundrygia made a low-throated snarl of her own. Those gimlets still around us sprang into action at once. While Yelp cried out in protest, Valeria and Branwen did so in panic. My companions were apprehended while the friendly gimlet looked frantically up at my face, then darted to Gundrygia. He pushed through the crowd of gimlets around her retreating form and tugged on her dress when within reach, whimpering and pointing at my friends.

  “Oh, now, poor thing!” Kneeling, Gundrygia tucked the lantern in one arm to caress Yelp’s muzzle and pinch his chubby gimlet cheek. “Don’t worry, angel…we only want Rorke, don’t we? The others will be free to go eventually.”

  With a laugh, Gundrygia rose again and continued away while swarmed by her attendants. Their absence opened up most of the town square between myself and the raging bonfire. In that gap now towered the golem, a fourteen-foot monstrosity that stared through heirloom eyes of ruby and displayed a grimacing mouth of valuable crockery.

  Mentally apologizing to the good people of Soot for destroying their finest belongings, I raised Strife high and charged the monster.

  The eerie thing about the golem was that it made no sounds of exertion or pain. I hacked the enchanted broadsword into its thigh and found it did not even seem to react. The golem looked listlessly at the point of contact, where a valuable carpet had formed a kind of skin, and did not even move as a cluster of coins slid out—save that it knocked me aside with the sweep of a hand.

  I clenched my teeth, skidding a few feet beneath the force but unharmed thanks to the plates of my armor. The gimlets all laughed—save for Yelp, who looked extremely serious—and my companions screamed. Gundrygia did not laugh or scream, but watched coldly with her arms around the lantern.

  Within seconds I had sprung upright and charged my foe again, unsure of my plan but unwilling and unable to let the thing remain animate. Not when Valeria and Branwen were held captive, and the location of the citizens was yet to be determined. Strife’s blade smashed part of a china cabinet that made up the giant’s hip; the glass front broke and the wooden structure fell in on itself, causing the golem to careen a bit. It flailed at me with an arm again and this time I dodged the blow. A good thing. The ground rattled upon the impact of its fist.

  Pushing itself upright, the golem stumbled after me when I backed up to gain some ground. I slashed its wrist a few times but found this joint was mostly metal, kitchen pots and pans and old tarnished armor or military shields that occasionally broke open beneath Strife’s blows. The hand itself, however, did an admirable job of staying attached. To make matters worse, I noticed with a grim glance at the thing’s hip that the parts making it up were shifting about to repair and maintain the form.

  Had it any kind of heart? I struck up to stab it in the chest while it lifted its abused hand in a fist meant for me. Instead Strife plunged into its torso and it careened back beneath the force. The dwarvish grandfather clock making up its lower left leg creaked and protested but ultimately held together as the golem stumbled toward the fire.

  Smoke thickened in the air. The golem glanced back at the crackling sound accompanying, then lifted a fist engulfed in flames. I was vaguely aware of mingled noise from the crowd as I realized the obvious solution and regrouped.

  It took several seconds for the golem to straighten itself up. By the time it was upright, its hand was a raging fireball. The construct turned upon me with its flaming fist cocked back for a punch. I narrowly avoided the first blow and feinted left, leaving my opponent just to my right. With new space between myself and its flaming left fist, I swept at its legs—

  And was promptly grabbed by the metal fingers of the golem’s less fiery hand.

  Baring my teeth, I shifted my grip on Strife and stabbed rapidly down into the wrist of the hand that clutched me like a child holding a figurine. Without the slightest reaction, the golem continued lifting me toward the blaze. As Valeria and Branwen called my name while struggling against their captors, I hacked away at the thing’s wrist as though using Strife to chip ice.

  That was what I seemed to have done when the glass vase inside the structure of the wrist met my blade and caused the hand holding me to collapse. While its fingers fell apart, I cried out and dropped ten feet—I had to roll, in fact, to avoid the fire. But when I stood, shattered glass falling from my armored shoulders like crystalline snow, the golem had only one hand to speak of.

  The flaming fist was still a threat, but now its use sent the false creation off-balance while its other hand slowly restored itself. As pieces of furniture and hand-carved jewel boxes and long-cherished wine bottles reassembled themselves piece by piece, the golem took another fiery swing at me. I raised Strife and barely managed to deflect its blow, the heat causing my face to break into a sweat as splinters of flaming furniture flew off in either di
rection. Its fist tore away and I charged again, fully dedicated to immolating the entire structure before its hand could re-form.

  Ignoring all reluctance, all possibility of danger, I charged in beneath the golem’s arms and hacked wildly at its legs. To the gasps of the gimlets, the construct stumbled back. I slashed on and on, and the creature shambled toward the blaze against which I forced it.

  “Go, Rorke,” screamed Branwen above Valeria’s quiet prayers. “Push it in the fire!”

  My slashes turned to high hammer strikes against the golem’s torso and pelvis. Each blow rattled through the animated body with greater force, the pieces coming apart, until a final stab left Strife stuck through the artificial torso. The golem looked down at itself as though surprised, its flaming hand lifting toward my blade. Before it could touch either of us, I braced my foot against that grandfather clock in its leg and used the pressure to pull Strife free. Once the sword was out, the force of my foot sent the golem stumbling back into the bonfire’s flames. There it fell apart in an instant and was at once rendered nothing more than fuel for a fire that raged more mightily than ever beneath the sudden inundation of old valuables.

  While the gimlet crowd erupted in anguish, Valeria and Branwen were released. The women cried out and hurried to me, embracing me by turns while I caught my breath.

  When I looked up, Gundrygia had worked her way through the gimlets. She now stood across the empty plaza from us.

  “How carelessly you destroy my creations, Burningsoul. Small wonder Adonisius was so affected by you! You adventurers think nothing of killing innocent creatures trying to live their lives.”

  “Your creatures aren’t all innocent. Those misshapen bandits seemed poised to do worse to Branwen than rob her, if you ask me—and the gimlets may be charming, may be victim to mankinds’ unfair judgment and ostracization, but they have still displaced the people of Soot, ransacked their homes, eaten their food and destroyed their belongings. And the fields—”