Chaos Reigning: The Five Kingdoms Book 10

by Toby Neighbors

  “Please, don’t be afraid,” Zollin said, stopping at least a dozen paces away from the man. “I’m with a caravan a few miles north of here. We got caught up in the snow and I just need to replenish our supplies.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “A pig, if you or one of your neighbors has one for sale. I’ve got coin and I’m desperate.”

  “Old man Barkyr might have one. You alone?”

  “I am,” Zollin said.

  “I’ll take you to him.”

  “That’s very kind,” Zollin said.

  There were surprised looks from the townsfolk but Zollin paid them little heed. He needed to get supplies and return to Ferno. He wasn’t looking to stay long in the little village, but he felt a strong sense of despair as they approached a small home. The amulet vibrated suddenly and Zollin felt a resistance in the magic emanating from the purple stone.

  “Who lives there?” Zollin asked.

  “That’s Ott and his wife, Tressa. Why?”

  Zollin’s mind immediately came up with plenty of reasons why he mentioned the small house. Unlike the others there was no evidence of anyone trying to shovel the snow way from the doors. The tiny wisp of smoke coming from the chimney revealed that someone lived there, but it was the feeling of despair that pulled Zollin in.

  “I need to go in there,” Zollin said.

  “You can’t,” the man said. “They’ve got the coughing sickness.”

  Zollin had heard of the disease. It was deadly and highly contagious. In most cases people who came down with it were shunned. Zollin had even heard of cases where people had been run out of town and left to die in the wilderness simply because they had signs of the disease. Still, the amulet was drawn to the needs of the people inside, creating a sense of empathy in Zollin so strong that he knew he had to help them somehow.

  “I can help them,” Zollin said.

  “You go in there and you’ll never come out,” said a big man with a shovel on his shoulder. “I don’t know who you are, stranger, but you’ll not spread that disease in this village.”

  Zollin looked at the man, his magic pulsing. He could feel the desire to show the man exactly what he was capable of. His magic wanted a test, to be set loose on the world, but Zollin held back. He didn’t want to hurt anyone and he knew that the big man, while in all likelihood a formidable fighter, was no match for Zollin’s power. Instead Zollin raised his hand toward the house and sent his magic into the snow covering the short distance between the street and the front door. With a mental heave the snow flew up and out, filling the air with a white cloud of powdery snow.

  By the time the snow settled a crowd had filled the narrow pathways in the streets around the small house. The men closest to Zollin looked tense and scared. He hadn’t come to the village to heal people, but he couldn’t turn his back on people in need.

  “My name is Zollin, Wizard of the Five Kingdoms,” he said in a loud voice. “I will help these people and any others like them that are sick or injured. I mean you no harm, but I am going into this house. Any who would try to stop me beware.”

  Many of the people crowding the narrow streets looked surprised, but none moved to stop Zollin. He went up to the small cottage and opened the door. The smell of sickness was strong in the house, which was cold. There was a man sitting on the floor near the fireplace, which had only a tiny flame smoldering around the wood from a broken piece of furniture. The man looked up at Zollin in a daze. His lips were red and speckled with blood.

  “We need firewood,” Zollin shouted to the crowd of people outside. “I’ll pay gold for whatever you bring.”

  He didn’t have to look back at the crowd of people, most were hurrying away to gather whatever spare wood they had. Zollin sent a wave of magic through the home. Behind a flimsy screen in the corner was a bed. A tiny child lay shivering beneath threadbare blankets. Her mother, obviously sick as well, lay beside her, stroking the child’s limp hair.

  Zollin kindled the fire around the tiny wood fragments, causing the flames to leap up into the air. Then he walked quickly back to the sickbed and knelt down close to the girl. The woman beside the girl opened her eyes wide with fear, but Zollin ignored her, instead focusing his magic deep down inside the child.

  He felt the sickness instantly. The child’s lungs were filled with a strange, fast-growing substance that was foreign and deadly. It wasn’t alive in the traditional sense, but it was growing on the child’s internal body, like mold covering old bread. It took a few minutes for Zollin to dispose of the substance. The girl gagged as he levitated the foul sickness from her body, then with a focused push of magic he burned it up in the air. Removing the source of her ailment was simple, but repairing the damage to the tiny, delicate tissue of her lungs was harder and took much longer.

  Over an hour passed as Zollin repaired the damage. When he opened his eyes the girl was looking at him, her breathing easy and calm. Zollin got to his feet and was surprised to find that he wasn’t dizzy or tired. Normally working magic for a long time affected him physically, but even though he hadn’t eaten, he felt strong. He walked to the door of the cottage and saw several piles of firewood outside. He lifted the wood nearest the door and levitated it inside.

  In the hour Zollin had been healing the little girl, the fire he had magically enhanced had consumed the tiny amount of broken furniture and died back down. Zollin moved the fresh firewood into the hearth and set it ablaze. After only a few moments the cottage was much warmer.

  “I’ve healed your daughter and now I’ll see to your wife,” Zollin told the man, who was clearly exhausted and only managed to nod in return. “I’ll see about you soon enough.”

  Zollin walked back to the small sleeping area and found the girl on her side, sucking her thumb and sleeping. Zollin sent his magic into the mother, who was afflicted with the same disease, but it wasn’t as advanced. Healing her took less than half of the time it had taken with the child. The woman still looked weak, but she was breathing easier and she looked hopeful.

  “You’ll be fine now,” Zollin said. “I’ll have food sent.”

  There were people watching the cottage from outside. Zollin stuck his head out the doorway and shouted, “We need food, and wine!”

  After half an hour the husband was healed and Zollin turned his attention to the cause of the sickness. He could feel a strange substance hanging in the air. He let his magic flow out into the rafters of the small cottage until he could feel every particle of the strange ailment in the air and he couldn’t help but marvel at his magic’s strength and newfound sensitivity. Then with a mental command, he burned the sickness in the air. It only took a second, and with another mental command he flung open the windows.

  “I know it’s cold out but get some fresh air in here,” he told the husband who was sitting up and looking stronger by the minute.

  Outside, baskets of food had been set near the firewood. Zollin walked out and picked the first one up. It had bread, cheese, fruit, and a bottle of wine. He carried it inside and gave it to the man.

  “Eat, and take care of your family. Then gather the food and firewood left outside. It’s enough to see you through until you feel stronger.”

  “How can we thank you?” the man said as his daughter and wife came out from behind the screen.

  “There is no need,” Zollin said. “You’ll need to give the townsfolk time to see that you aren’t sick anymore. Use the time to rest and regain your strength.”

  “Thank you,” the little girl said sweetly.

  “It was my honor,” Zollin said with a bow.

  Just before he left he pulled two gold coins from the pouch in his belt and handed them to the man. Then he left. The entire town was waiting outside the cottage. Most were just waiting to catch a glimpse of him, but a few were sick or injured. Most of their ailments were common and easily cured, but one man had a club foot that made it nearly impossible for the man to walk. Zollin took his time rebuilding the deformi
ty until it was whole. Then, as the sun began to set, he finally saw to his own needs.

  “I need food and wine,” he said. “And a fat pig if there’s one to be had.”

  He gave out gold to those who brought food and firewood, as well as to an older man who brought Zollin a sow that easily weighed over three hundred pounds.

  “She’s older,” the man said. “Might be a little tough to chew.”

  “Not for my friend,” Zollin said with a smile.

  The older man looked confused and then Ferno roared. The entire town was in the streets to see Zollin off and they cowered as Ferno swooped low. Zollin had to force himself not to laugh at the terror on the faces of the crowd. He sometimes forgot how frightening the huge green dragon could be.

  “Make room!” Zollin shouted.

  The townspeople backed away quickly as Ferno prepared to land. The fat pig squealed and broke loose from Zollin’s grip but Ferno swooped down and snatched up the pig effortlessly. The entire town watched as Ferno tossed the pig into the air, burned it with a breath of fire, and then caught the charred pig’s body in its maw.

  Zollin had a large sack filled with food slung over his shoulder and a jug of wine tucked under one arm. He felt almost theatrical as he unleashed his magic to lift himself up in the air. Ferno flew under Zollin who settled onto the dragon’s back and they flew on toward Ebbson Keep.

  Chapter 14

  “They’re coming from that direction,” Jute said, pointing up the corridor.

  Most of the dwarves were wiping sleep from their eyes and trying to get their bearings. Babaz had a look of fear and determination on his face.

  “Quick,” Jute shouted. “Let’s get the most able bodied here, across the corridor.”

  The dwarves were not fast-moving people, but they managed to fill the space at the head of the group with a line of fighters three deep, just as the Groslings came into sight. Jute had tried to take a place in the front line, but the others pulled him back. He was in the third rank, along with a few other injured dwarves. Behind him were those too weak or injured to fight.

  The Groslings shouted a battle cry as they rushed toward the dwarves, but the bearded warriors were stoic. From somewhere ahead of Jute one of the dwarves began to chant the words to an ancient song.

  From the heart of mountains strong

  Come our people, comes our song

  We are clans and houses sure

  Our strength and steel will endure

  As the dwarves began to chant in unison the Groslings’ charge faltered. Jute could see the sudden onset of fear. The group of dwarves chanting their death song and standing resolute was not what the devilish creatures had expected.

  With our hammers we break stone

  From our anvils we are known

  The song of glory forged in fire

  Till we are laid upon death’s pyre

  We shall sing of Dwarvish might

  Under mountains we shall fight

  Until the last of our number falls

  Our hammers echo through cavern halls

  And we shall sing our dying song

  From the heart of mountains strong

  The first clash was over quickly and even though the Groslings were larger and had proper weapons, they fell back fast, cowed by the ferocity of the dwarves. Only the dwarves on the front line fought and though they weren’t a proper shield wall they held firm against the attack. The hammers and chisels did some damage, but mostly only managed to wound the wicked creatures from the underworld. But the pickaxes were deadly. Several of the Groslings were killed and the dwarves were forced to wrench the picks free. It was a gruesome sight, but Jute could tell it had a greater effect on the Groslings than on him.

  A few of the dwarves were injured in the attack and they stepped back to the third rank to nurse their wounds until they were needed to fight again. Babaz looked as if he wanted to lead a charge of his own, but the dwarves were outnumbered and it wasn’t in their nature to run down their enemies. Dwarves were strong and had incredible stamina in the forge or in the mines, but running was not their strong suit.

  “Come and get us, you bloody devils!” shouted one of the dwarves wielding a bloody pickaxe.

  “You’ll get nothing but death and misery here!” shouted Babaz.

  The monsters attacked again, this time their numbers crowded the corridor, but even en masse they couldn’t sweep the dwarves back. And the larger number of Groslings only made it more difficult for the creatures to fight. The dwarves were carefully spaced and had nothing left to lose. They fought so savagely that the Groslings retreated and this time they left dozens of wounded or dying behind them. The second rank of dwarves stepped forward, spelling those on the front.

  Babaz passed Jute as he moved back onto the third rank. He had a wound on the side of his head and there was a hardness in his eyes that reminded Jute of diamond, but there was also a smile on the dwarf’s face.

  “At least we’ll be carried to the halls of our ancestors on the backs of the monsters that died under our hammers,” he shouted.

  The dwarves all around Jute cheered. They were frightened and tired, but mostly they were angry. The caverns under the Walheta Mountains had seemed like a haven of safety, but despite the awesome craftsmanship and incredible achievement of the dwarves who had once lived there, the caverns had become death’s playground. Nearly half of the dwarves who had retreated into the caves during the Witch’s War had been killed by the relentless slave masters who served the Bollark. The dwarves had been forced to work in dangerous conditions and with very little food or water. They had seen their kinsmen broken or starved. Very few were without an injury of some kind, and while they had succeeded in foiling the fire giant’s plan of finding a way out of the underworld it had come at a terrible price.

  Their escape too seemed to be a costly crusade. Brianna, the fire spirit and friend to the dwarves, had saved them, but Jute had no idea what had become of her. And after fleeing the underworld they had pushed themselves to the brink of exhaustion in hopes of eluding the Groslings, only to have their escape thwarted by the awful creatures once again.

  The Groslings attacked a third time, but with less enthusiasm than before. Most of them stayed out of reach of the dwarves, who held their defensive position. The crowded corridor echoed with the screams of the wounded and the clash of steel. Then the Groslings retreated again.

  The dwarf in front of Jute spat and shouted in rage as one of the wounded who lay on the floor of the cavern swung a heavy, metal sword that was really more like a crudely adapted metal bar, at the dwarf’s foot. The weapon didn’t cut through the dwarf’s heavy boot, but it did smash several of the dwarf’s toes. Another dwarf stepped forward and drove a sharpened chisel through the back of the monster’s head.

  “Fall back,” Jute said, as he stepped up to the front line and took the dwarf’s place.

  The wounded dwarf hobbled back toward the wounded, favoring his broken toes as best he could. Babaz stepped up behind Jute.

  “I’ll take your place,” he offered.

  Jute looked back and could see the thick stream of blood that was covering the left side of Babaz’s face. He looked a little pale and there was sweat on his forehead.

  “You’re wounded,” Jute said.

  “And you have a broken arm,” Babaz argued.

  “Even with one arm the fighters from the Yel clan are superior to the Oliad clan.”

  “Go ahead and die,” Babaz smirked. “You’ve already lost your mind.”

  Jute could see the Groslings preparing for another charge. They had expected the dwarves to break and run, or perhaps simply give up. They didn’t seem prepared for or skilled at fighting. There was no real strategy to their attacks, almost as if they depended more on fear and numbers to overcome their foes. But the dwarves would not flee. They would stand and fight until the last dwarf was slain defending the weak.

  When the Groslings rushed forward again Jute braced himself. He held th
e chisel ready. It was short and thick, but very sharp on the small cutting edge. He would have preferred a hammer, but even the hammers the dwarves had were small and unsuited for war. There were two creatures running straight toward Jute. One had thick legs and a large bulbous head that was bowed forward as if it was going to ram him. The other was so incredibly thin that it was hard to believe the creature was real, yet it was keeping pace with the larger foe. Jute raised his chisel and waited for the impact he knew was coming. He had to time his own strike so that it landed at just the right moment to stop the charging monster.

  At the last instant the thin monster hung back, waiting to capitalize on the carnage its companion expected to make ramming the dwarves’ fighting line. But Jute, even with only one good arm, was incredibly dangerous. He didn’t try to take the ramming creature head on, instead he dove to the floor and swung the chisel up into the soft underside of the Grosling’s bulbous head. The chisel sank deep and made the creature falter. Jute held on, acting like an anchor, pulling the creature down on top of him.

  The weight of the beast knocked the wind from Jute’s lungs and sent a stabbing pain through his broken arm that made him scream in pain. He felt the thinner Grosling crash into its larger companion. He had meant to roll to the side and trip up the tall, gangling demon, but he was pinned under the larger beast’s head. It felt like a boulder on his chest.

  Jute heard Babaz’s war cry as he rushed into the gap left by Jute. It took all of Jute’s strength to lift the dead creature’s head from his chest using only his good arm, but he managed to roll out from under the beast just as the thinner demon fell to the ground beside him. Jute didn’t have the time to wrench his chisel free, but the thin creature had a crudely fashioned curved sword that Jute ripped from the demon’s hand. A quick slash ripped through the beast’s throat.

  “Look out!” Babaz shouted as another creature, this one so fat Jute could hardly believe it was able to carry its own weight, came waddling at him with a long, rusty spear.

  Jute swatted the spearhead to the side with his stolen sword. The weapon was almost as large as the dwarf, which made it unwieldy, but Jute was strong enough to use it effectively. As the fat demon hobbled closer Jute swung his hardened, clay cast at the creature’s head. The dwarf howled in pain as the Grosling was knocked senseless. The pain in Jute’s broken arm was almost unbearable, but he clenched his teeth and drove his sword into the fat creature’s body.