by T. H. Lain
Whitman's first blow landed on the wizard's chest. It was powerful enough to shatter ribs, and the man staggered back. His arms flailed at his sides as he struggled for balance. Gasping sounds filled the room as he tried desperately to fill his lungs.
The dwarf's hammer fell again, this time smashing the wizard's arm. Regdar heard bones snap under the impact. He let out a low whistle as he hobbled on his scorched leg toward the two men.
Lowering his sword in his left hand, Regdar balled his right hand into a fist and punched the wizard square in the face. His gauntlet clanked against the robed man's mouth. The wizard's head snapped back from the impact, and pieces of broken teeth clattered across the tiled floor.
The wizard collapsed to his knees.
Regdar rested his sword blade at the base of the wizard's neck. "Surrender."
The dark-robed man sat on the floor, probing the bloody holes in his smile with his finger. He looked up at Regdar, shrugged, then put his hands into his robe.
"Keep those where I can see them," threatened Regdar, and he applied some downward pressure on the blade.
The wizard smiled. Blood dripped from holes in his gums and ran down his chin. He withdrew his hands from his robes, but he held a small, pink ball of goo between two fingers. The substance flashed then disintegrated. Regdar squinted involuntarily to protect his eyes. The wizard lisped out two quick words, and he disappeared.
Shaking his head, Regdar growled. The sound echoed off the walls of the old bathhouse. Too late, the fighter sliced with his sword where the wizard had been kneeling. His greatsword struck nothing but the floor.
Regdar looked to Whitman. The dwarf shrugged, and both men scanned the room, their weapons at the ready.
In the corner, a cluster of glowing, blue-white orbs appeared. They floated in mid-air, casting an eerie glow on the darkened chamber. Both fighters stepped forward before the magical missiles lifted from where they hovered and streaked toward them. The lights swirled and blurred, then smashed into the human and the dwarf.
Regdar heard a short yelp escape his hps as the skin on his chest sizzled and popped. Despite the pain, the fighter charged toward the corner, his eyes trained on the apparently empty spot where the orbs had appeared.
In his mind, Regdar imagined the hooded man standing before him, casting the spell and dodging away. Lunging to his left as he reached the corner, the big fighter leaned into his strike, praying his hunch was correct.
His greatsword met resistance in what looked like thin air, then a flood of bright-red blood gushed across the blade.
Whitman, only a step behind, zeroed in on the freshly opened wound and swung his hammer in a flat arc. The head of the weapon connected with something that made a sickening crunch. Regdar's sword was pulled sideways by an invisible force. More blood gushed down the blade, then the wizard materialized in a heap on the floor.
Regdar pulled his sword free and wiped the blade on the dead man's robe. "So many bad men, so little time."
Then the big fighter sheathed his sword and walked into the darkness at the other side of the room.
Whitman balanced his hammer on his shoulder and looked down at the fallen wizard. He shook his head.
"Sweet gifts of Pelor," shouted Regdar. "Come take a look at this." He pulled off his helmet and let it drop. Loosening his backpack, he flung it to the floor in front of him and dropped to his knees in a pile of gold coins, gems, and books.
"Would you look at this," he said, picking up handfuls of coins and letting them slip through his fingers. The cascading treasure made a pleasant, jingling sound as it landed on the jumbled pile. "This guy and his umber hulks must have cleaned out most of the ruins."
Whitman lowered himself to the floor beside Regdar and began scooping swag into his backpack. He smiled and slapped his friend on the shoulder.
Regdar did the same, packing as much as he could carry. Between scoops of gold coins and huge jewels, the fighter lifted a rather plain-looking amulet with a single, archaic rune inscribed on its surface. Shrugging, he looped its leather band over his head and let the amulet hang from his neck. He smiled down at it momentarily, then resumed filling his backpack.
Several handfuls into the pile, Regdar uncovered a jewel-encrusted flask. He lifted it up to get a better look. Holding it out into one of the few beams of light that penetrated this far into the ruins, he examined the vessel. The opening at its top was sealed with red wax. Along its edges, embedded gems formed pictures of beasts and men, all fighting against each other. The scenes entranced Regdar, and he stared at the flask as if concentrating intently.
The bottle felt strange in his hand. It was heavy, much heavier than any potion the fighter had held. It wasn't the weight that concerned him. It was more of an impulse. Regdar felt as if the bottle might burst open at any moment, as if whatever was inside the flask was too big to be contained in such a small flagon, and if it stayed there much longer, the sides might just crack apart.
Regdar put his hand on top of the flask. The pressure inside the bottle seemed so great, Regdar thought the cork might pop out on its own. He grabbed hold of it with his thumb and forefinger.
Whitman dropped his fleshy palm on his friend's shoulder. "Perhaps we should leave that for the duke to deal with," he said.
Regdar shook his head, then looked down at the bottle again. "Yes," he said. "I think that would be best." He looked back up at the dwarf and smiled. "I don't know what got into me."
Shaking his head, Regdar shoved the flask into his backpack.
Six months earlier...
The blackguard stood at the edge of her arena. In the middle, two tattooed men fought. Both were stripped to the waist, barefoot, and bleeding. Each had a short sword and a buckler. They were winded from fighting for nearly an hour.
On their chests, heaving up and down with each exaggerated breath, were three words written in the infernal language of the Abyss—and the symbol of Hextor himself. The god of battle had smiled upon them, and these men, in turn, had dedicated their lives to him, showing their devotion by tattooing their bodies with the image of their god.
The blackguard read those words to herself now: war; conflict; destruction. They were words she could take to heart.
In the arena, a sword clanked off a buckler, and one of the warriors fell to the ground with a blade in his gut.
The stands erupted in cheers. The blackguard smiled as she looked out at nearly a thousand men, each shirtless, each carrying the mark of Hextor on his chest.
The victorious warrior stood over his wounded victim, looking to the blackguard, waiting patiently for a sign.
The crowd chanted, "Finish him! Finish him! Finish him!"
The blackguard slipped her sword from its sheath. The chamber went silent. This was her favorite part. Lifting the blade high in the air, she looked at the warriors in the middle—one bleeding, one wanting blood.
"Send him to Hextor," she said, and she lowered her blade.
The poised warrior did not hesitate before plunging the end of his short sword into the man and ending his life.
The blackguard turned and walked back to her throne. Sitting down, she watched two more men drag the corpse to the edge of the chasm and push it over. Then they returned to the center of the arena, nodded to each other, and began fighting.
A robed man stepped from behind the throne and prostrated himself before the woman seated on it, his face touching the ground.
"Mistress," he said with a lisp, "we have located the bottle."
The blackguard nearly stood up. "Where?"
"In the duchy of New Koratia," answered the robed man, "in some ruined catacombs off the River Delnir."
"The Herald of Hell has smiled upon us," she said, looking over her shoulder at the fist of Hextor.
"Yes, my mistress." The man kept his face to the dirt. "What is your desire?"
Behind him, one of the cultist's swords caught the other man under the chin, taking his head off in a single stroke.
The man sat up. As he did, the cowl of his robe fell back to reveal a puckered, gray scar over his left eye and cheek. When he smiled, his ruined hps parted to show his teeth and most of his gums.
"As you command, my mistress."
Present Day...
Regdar dragged his overloaded pack out of the tunnel and into the fresh air. The sun was just coming up.
"Every time we go down into the ruins of Old Koratia I lose track of time," mused the fighter. He let his pack settle to the ground and stood up, stretching.
"Then you wouldn't make much of a dwarf," replied Whitman. He lowered his load as well to adjust his armor and hammer. "Ain't no sunrise in the mines."
Regdar shook his arms, then hefted the sack over his shoulder. "Speaking of that, there's something I've been meaning to ask you."
Whitman blew out a deep breath and grunted as he lifted his heavy treasure bag. "What would that be?"
Both men started toward the walled city of New Koratia in the near distance.
"Well," started Regdar, "exactly what kind of name is Whitman for a dwarf?"
The dwarf grunted. "You got a problem with my name?"
"No. No." Regdar smirked. "It's just that it—"
"That it what?" growled the dwarf.
"That it sounds like a human name—one you might expect of a banker or one of the duke's personal advisors. A smart man, not a grumbling, old dwarf." Regdar laughed so hard he almost lost his load.
"Laugh it up, meat head." Whitman shifted his pack. "At least I'm not named Regdar."
"What's wrong with Regdar?" asked the human.
"It sounds like a human name—one you might expect of a big, dumb guy whose solution to everything is to bash it to bits." The dwarf laughed. "On second thought, I take it back. It suits you."
"Very funny, little man." Regdar snorted.
Whitman laughed again.
"But I'm serious," interjected the big fighter. "I've never met another dwarf with a human-sounding name."
Whitman cocked his head and looked over his pack at Regdar. He nodded. "If you must know—"
Regdar stopped walking.
Whitman did the same and looked gravely up at the big fighter. "I was raised by a human family until the age of sixteen. They found me wrapped in a blanket, next to a stump in the woodlands not far from Fairbye."
"What were you doing out there?"
"Don't know." The dwarf shrugged. "Guess I was abandoned."
Regdar was puzzled. "How did the human family find you? Those woodlands aren't exactly well-traveled."
"They were part of a traveling circus—tumblers, acrobats, you know. They were getting ready to camp for the night. Guess they were starting a new show the next morning."
Regdar smiled. "So that's where you learned to roll around on the floor like that."
The dwarf scowled. "You call it rolling around on the floor. I call it an art form."
Regdar laughed. "Whatever."
Whitman continued with his story, ignoring the jibe. "It was my human parents who named me—after a great-great grandfather who—" Whitman rolled his eyes—"had served as an advisor to the king."
"Ha!" shouted Regdar. "I knew it."
Whitman narrowed his eyes at his friend. "Did you now?"
"Well, didn't I just say Whitman sounded like the name of one of the duke's advisors?" Regdar smiled ear to ear.
"Proud of yourself then, are you?" Whitman turned and continued toward New Koratia.
Regdar hurried to catch up, still smiling. "But I've heard some of the other dwarves in the barracks call you 'Gruble'."
Whitman nodded. "That's just a nickname." He turned toward Regdar. "For those who don't like Whitman."
Regdar's smile faded. "I meant no offense."
The dwarf scowled for a moment, then broke into a gap-toothed grin. "I know lad," he said. "I'm just messing with you."
The two fighters stepped up to the guardhouse and were greeted by a dozen or more rowdy soldiers. Regdar and Whitman lowered their packs.
"Welcome home, Captain," shouted a burly, human man with a tattoo of a longsword on his forearm. He slapped Regdar on the shoulder.
A tall, muscular elf stepped through the crowd and lifted one of the heavy sacks.
"Let me help you back to the barracks," he said. "The duke will be wanting to see you." He looked Whitman over from head to toe. "And I'm sure he doesn't want a dirty dwarf in his personal chambers."
Whitman looked up. "I may be dirty, Tasca, but at least I don't smell like elf."
"They're at it again," said the big human with the tattoo. He rolled his eyes.
Someone grabbed the other pack, and Regdar, Whitman, and a handful of others walked down the street toward the River Delnir. The river bisected the city into two roughly equal parts. The road the men walked on cut New Koratia in the opposite direction, creating four distinctly different quarters. The southwest part of the city was known as the Dark Quarter—the part of the city where thieves and brigands roamed freely. Several years previous, the duke saw fit to move the army barracks there. Regdar assumed it was to deter the criminal element from overstepping the bounds. Whatever the rationale, the soldiers' presence did little to instill law and order. Crime still thrived in the darkened alleyways and back streets of the Dark Quarter. Now, however, as a matter of survival, the criminals had grown better at hiding, sneaking, and avoiding the city watch. If anything, the army's presence made the thieves better at their trade.
At the end of the road, where the cobblestones met the rushing waters of the Delnir, the soldiers turned in to their barracks. Two sentries at the entrance shouted to their returning captain and his dwarf companion.
Regdar entered the barracks and went immediately to his bunk. Doffing his chestplate, gauntlets, and vambraces, the fighter collapsed on the soft bed. The privileges of being an officer in the duke's army were not lost on the fighter. Though he didn't need the extra comforts, he couldn't deny how good it felt to rest his tired body.
He must have fallen asleep, because what seemed like only a few seconds passed before he was awakened by a loud noise. The veteran leaped to his feet, his greatsword in hand.
"Easy, big fella," calmed Whitman. "It's just the duke."
Regdar shook himself awake and lowered his sword. A well-muscled, gray haired man wearing full ornamental platemail and a magenta velvet cape stepped through the door.
Regdar dropped to one knee and bowed his head. Whitman, Tasca, and the other soldiers did the same.
"Rise. Please, rise," commanded the duke. He smiled as he crossed the room. He walked over and placed his hand on Regdar's shoulder. "I'm glad for your safe return."
"Thank you, my lord," replied Regdar, standing rigidly before Duke Christo Ramas.
The duke nodded, then walked over to Whitman and shook the old dwarf's hand. "Tell me," he said, "did you retrieve it?" He looked from Whitman to Regdar.
Regdar nodded.
Duke Christo Ramas clapped his hands once. "Excellent. Let me see it."
Regdar crossed to his backpack and dumped most of the contents on the wooden floor. Coins and gems made a clanking racket as they tumbled out, then the jewel-encrusted flask rolled free and came to rest on top of the other treasure.
The duke's eyes grew wide, and he got down on his knees to lift the vessel from the ground. He spun the bottle in his hands, examined the jeweled patterns, and inspected the wax seal to make sure it was intact. He breathed a relieved sigh and stood up.
"You've done good work, men," he commended. The duke made eye contact with all the soldiers in the room, smiling. "Tonight we celebrate the return of our heroes—" he nodded at both Whitman and Regdar and hoisted the bottle overhead—"and the return of the bottle to my custody."
The blackguard paced the floor of her new chambers. T
he personal effects of the previous lord of this castle still lay in disarray around the room. She kicked a dwarf's skull out of her way as she walked.
"Necromancers."
The door opened and a trio of men entered. Two wore black splintmail and helms. Between them was a third man wearing dark blue robes. His head was bare and shaved, his eyes open but unseeing—pearly white orbs that scanned the room but took in nothing. He carried his hands hidden inside his vestments, and his head rolled from side to side as he walked escorted by the armored figures.
The group stopped a few feet from the blackguard, and one of the warriors stepped forward.
"Do you have news of the recovery effort?" she asked.
"We do, Mistress," he said.
"Go on."
The man straightened himself as best he could, inhaled deeply, then said, "The mission is a failure. The bottle has been stolen and both the wizard and his umber hulks have been slain."
The blackguard screeched. Her sword whipped from its sheath and rang as it sliced through the man's armor. Blood sprayed across the floor where the body tumbled down.
The blackguard turned to the remaining armored man. "Is this true?"
The other warrior stepped forward without hesitation. "Yes, Mistress."
"And you, mage," she said, nodding at the robed man, "what do you know of this?"
The bald, sightless man withdrew his hands from his robes. "I know who has the bottle now."
The blackguard lowered her sword. "Show me."
The robed man knelt down and drew several sigils in the dust on the floor. He recited an incantation, and a white globe formed between his outstretched hands. On the surface of the globe pictures formed, and the pictures moved.
The blackguard leaned over and stared into the globe. A pair of fighters took shape—one dwarven, one human.
"Regdar," she said. "Well, well. Perhaps I have found a use for the wizard bitch after all."