City Under the Sand: A Dark Sun Novel (Dungeons & Dragons: Dark Sun)

by Jeff Mariotte

  “Yes,” Aric said. “We … we sort of tricked them into battling each other. Whoever survived the fight might be angry.”

  The big man laughed again. “It seems I was mistaken. You’re not just interesting. You’re pure trouble.”

  Aric spread his hands. “I wish I could deny that.”

  “Enter,” the man said. “Gate!”

  The village gate, Aric noted, was made of iron, and in good repair. Two men swung it open, and the five travelers rode their stolen erdlus through. Inside were orderly rows of buildings, constructed of mud bricks or a similar stone and mortar construction to the outer wall. The big man jumped down from a platform that ran along behind the inside of the wall, about halfway up.

  “Welcome to the village of Yarri,” he said. He was a handsome fellow, with pale green eyes and a ready grin. “I am called Hotak Hedessi, once of Urik but no longer.”

  “We appreciate your hospitality, Hotak,” Myrana said. “Are you the …”

  “I’m the village smith,” Hotak said.

  Aric’s head snapped around. “You’ve a smithy here?”

  “We do.”

  “I would like to see that.”

  “That can be arranged,” Hotak offered. “But first … these raiders. Did they say anything about Fort Dunnat?”

  “Yes!” Myrana said. “They did,”

  “Hmm …” A shadow seemed to pass over the smith’s face. “Then we’d better begin our preparations right away. That’s a bad bunch. They leave us alone, for the most part, but if they’re after you …”

  “Perhaps we ought not let them in,” a burly, dark-haired older woman said, scowling at the newcomers. “Why antagonize raiders over these we don’t even know?”

  “Because they’ve coins to spend, Maja, and the raiders never give, only take.”

  “Aye, true enough. But—”

  “But nothing. You’re welcome, strangers. There’s a small tavern right down that road, on the village square,” Hotak said, pointing. “You’ll find food and beds there. There’s a livery nearby as well. I’ll be busy here for a while.”

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” Aric said. He hopped off the erdlu, revitalized by the unexpectedly gracious reception and the prospect of a real meal and an actual bed. “We’ll go there, and we’ll spend some coins in your village, with pleasure.”

  He led the bird and his companions down the road Hotak had indicated. A few people emerged from buildings along the way, greeting them with reserved politeness. Others spread the word that raiders might be coming, and people rushed to the walls to lend their support. There were probably a hundred permanent structures in the village, Aric calculated. It wasn’t on any major trading routes, but with its contained oasis, it probably catered to travelers, which was why it had a tavern with rooms in the first place. He supposed it had some other industry as well: a quarry, a mine, or something. If it was like many villages he’d heard about, he would never be allowed to see that, and it might not even be spoken of in the presence of outsiders.

  The tavern was a single-story building that sprawled out in three directions, with smaller buildings tacked on after the original had been erected. Beside it was the livery, which was more or less a single barn with a few outside stables for hardier beasts. Both were quiet, but when they took the erdlus into the barn, a stable boy showed up, struck a deal for the care of the creatures, and took them to be fed and watered.

  Inside the tavern, an old married couple, he with a belly that looked like he was concealing several small animals under his shirt, she stooped over almost double, with but one tooth in her head and long, stringy white hair, agreed to feed them and offered them beds in a single room or several.

  Aric was more than happy to eat. The meal was almost silent, since they’d all had plenty of each other’s company but not enough, these last several days, to fill their stomachs. During it, his gaze kept drifting out the window to the smith’s shop across the square. It was bigger than his, with ironwork out front and someone moving about inside, even though he knew Hotak was at the wall.

  When they had finished eating, the old man showed them to two rooms, one Aric would share with Sellis and Ruhm, and one for Amoni and Myrana. The woman was preparing a hot bath, which would cost another two bits of his dwindling supply, but sounded well worth the price. Aric left the others to relax and walked across the square to the smithy.

  The familiar smells struck him first, the tang of molten iron and the underlying aroma of the charcoal burned to heat the forge. These smells got into a smithy’s walls, and into the clothing and skin of the smith. Smelling them made Aric homesick for Nibenay, though at the trip’s start he’d been glad for the chance to see new sights and have new adventures.

  The doorway of Hotak’s shop was covered in a fine layer of black dust, as was the shop’s single window. Aric tried to see through it, but all he could make out were vague shapes, and back in one corner, the red glow of the forge. Evening was coming on, but warmth radiated from the smithy and standing outside it was comfortable.

  He didn’t know how long they would remain in this village. Not long, he hoped, but if the raiders or the thri-kreen were tracking them here, he didn’t want to go back out into the desert until they’d been dispatched.

  And the fact that he had lost his steel sword bothered him. The weapon had been too old, and too heavy for him, but for all that it felt better in his hand than any agafari-wood sword Nibenay could provide. He wondered it Hotak would mind if he used the shop to craft his own sword, something custom-made just for him, as he had made so many for others over the years.

  He was staring into the window, inhaling the pleasant smells and feeling the warmth, when suddenly a face appeared on the other side. It belonged to a man, short and heavily muscled, with a head completely bald but for a sprig of hair growing from the top, like a tuft of weeds in an otherwise bare field, and a few strands of sparse beard on his chin. His features were thick, with a low brow, a wide, flat nose, and full lips framing a wide mouth. A dwarf.

  “What do you want?” the dwarf demanded, his voice gruff. “Shop’s closed.”

  Aric stepped closer to the window, looking down as well as he could through the grime-coated glass. The dwarf held a shovel full of charcoal. “But you’re working,” he said. “Best get that in the fire, lest the forge cool.”

  The dwarf’s eyes widened and something akin to a smile danced on his lips for an instant. “You know the smith’s ways?”

  “I am a smith,” Aric said. “And I’ve met Hotak, who told me this is his shop.”

  The dwarf disappeared from the window. A moment later, Aric heard the sound of charcoal being shoveled into the fire, then the pumping of a big bellows. Aric stood there wondering if he should come back another time, when the door opened. “I’m Mazzax,” the dwarf said. “Hotak’s apprentice.”

  “I am Aric, of Nibenay. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mazzax. I’ve been too long from my own forge, and didn’t realize until just now how I miss it.”

  “I couldn’t be away from it for a day,” Mazzax said. “Everything about it … the heat, the sparks, the clang of the sledge against iron on the anvil. It’s in my blood. But … you can’t come in. Shop’s closed. When Hotak returns …”

  “That could be a while,” Aric said. “He’s at the wall.”

  “I know. Preparing for attack. You’re one of the strangers?”

  “I am.”

  “If we’re attacked because of you … if anyone’s hurt … you’d best not stay long, that’s all I’ll say.”

  “I don’t know that anyone followed our path here. If they did, well, it sounds as if the raiders from Fort Dunnat have been troubling your village too long anyway.”

  “True enough.”

  “Believe me, I’d as soon never see those raiders again. And I hope to stay in your village only a short while, then to leave it in peace, as I found it.”

  The dwarf was sizing him up. He seemed satisfied by
what he saw. “And you are a smith.”

  “I am indeed.”

  “All right, then. I won’t hate you. Not for now.”

  “That’s good,” Aric said.

  “But you still must leave. Shop’s closed!” Mazzax slammed the door, and Aric heard him shoot the bolt. Then he heard the rhythmic pumping of the bellows once again. So Hotak had a project going, even though he wasn’t here to supervise it. Or the dwarf worked on one of his own. Otherwise he’d let the fire cool, and not bother feeding air into it.

  He walked away from the shop, reluctantly, as it had given him the flavor of home. He let out a long yawn, stretching his arms at the same time. He would speak with Hotak. But perhaps in the morning, after a few hours sleep …

  2

  The raiders came at first light, with the rising sun at their backs. Aric was deeply immersed in a dream. He was the master of a huge smithy, with a dozen forges and even more anvils. The place was crowded with journeymen, working at each forge and anvil, and apprentices doing nothing but working the bellows and stoking the fires. Ruhm was there, and Myrana and Rieve and even Damaric, the barbarian soldier-slave, all of them journeymen, and Aric paced around the shop checking their work, barking out orders. It was a strange dream, but somehow satisfying. When shouts from outside threatened to tear him from it, he tried to hang on.

  Finally, Ruhm shook him. “They’re here,” Ruhm said.

  “Who’s here?” Aric rubbed his eyes. Gradually he understood the sounds coming through the window—sounds of a village under attack. “The thri-kreen?”

  Sellis stood at the window, looking out. “I think it’s raiders,” he said.

  “I thought sure the thri-kreen would finish them.”

  “Perhaps they did. But if others went out looking for their comrades, they’d still have been able to follow our tracks.”

  “We should help,” Ruhm said.

  “Aye,” Sellis agreed.

  Aric dressed quickly. He had no weapon but that short spear he had taken. If there were many raiders, he wanted something better than that. “I’ll meet you at the wall,” he said. He dashed from the tavern, and across the square.

  The forge’s heat still seeped through the walls and window of the blacksmith’s shop. Aric pounded on the door. No one answered, so he went to the window. Through the filmed glass, he could see Mazzax moving about. “Mazzax!” he cried. “It’s me, Aric! Open up!”

  “Shop’s closed.”

  “I know it’s closed! Just open the door!”

  Mazzax did as he asked, opening it a few inches and blocking the way with his squat, solid bulk. “What?”

  “The raiders. They’ve attacked the village.”

  “And if they come here they’ll find the shop closed.”

  His response confused Aric for a moment. Best not try to think like a dwarf, he decided. That will get me nowhere. “I need a weapon,” Aric said. He showed the dwarf his spear, a simple wooden shaft with a chipped obsidian head. The dwarf eyed it with disdain. “I want to go fight at the wall, alongside Hotak and the others. But I need a real weapon, not this paltry thing.”

  “Shop’s closed.”

  “There must be something!”

  “Wait here.” The dwarf slammed the door, shot the bolt. Aric wondered if he’d be left waiting all day. A minute later, the bolt slid back and the door opened, and again Mazzax stood there. “Here,” he said.

  He handed Aric an iron rod, a half-inch in diameter and three feet long. “That’s it?” Aric asked. “That’s all you’ve got? I’m willing to pay—”

  “Shop’s closed.” The door slammed again.

  This time it wouldn’t be re-opening, Aric knew.

  He hefted the iron rod. For a moment, images filled his mind, of Hotak and Mazzax working side by side, of Mazzax obeying the big man’s instructions, copying everything Hotak did, learning the craft from the bottom up. He forced those aside. No time for that now. Still, contact with the metal brought him comfort. It was heavy and it was strong.

  It would, he decided, make a better weapon than this stupid spear.

  Holding both, the spear in his left hand and the rod in his right, he ran toward the wall.

  Most of the villagers had taken up positions on the platforms that ran the length of the village walls. Men and women alike fired bows and crossbows over the wall, ducking behind its protection when similar missiles flew at them. The attackers were screaming threats and warning of what they’d do if the villagers didn’t surrender, and the villagers responded in kind. Several had already fallen, and others worked to move their bodies away from the foot of the wall and to patch the wounded.

  Aric saw Ruhm, Amoni and Sellis up on the wall, and he climbed a ladder to join them. Raiders, dozens of them—more than had initially captured them—swarmed around the village on kanks, on erdlus, and on foot. Most carried shields and weapons, some even wore helms and armor of chitin or bone.

  Sellis glanced at him. “What’s that?”

  “It’s a piece of iron.”

  “What’s it for?”

  A raider leapt from a kank’s back, grabbing onto the wall nearby and starting to haul himself up. Aric raised the rod and slammed it down on the man’s head, cracking his helmet and knocking him from the wall. “That.”

  “Good enough.”

  An arrow clattered against the wall right beneath Aric. Aric ducked away from it, then rose again. The archer was far out of range for him, but others were approaching, including a couple of elves running toward the wall at full speed. When they reached it, they would launch themselves over it and land inside. Aric rested the rod on top of the wall and shifted the spear to his right hand. He waited another few heartbeats, until he could see the elves’ eyes, their parted lips, drawing in air as they ran. One had a pink triangle of tongue showing at the corner of his mouth. Aric aimed at that and hurled his spear.

  The obsidian point sank into the meaty area near the elf’s shoulder. The elf slowed, cursed, and yanked it out. He threw it back over the wall, without taking aim, and kept running. Blood poured down his chest and arm.

  That’s why I don’t like spears, Aric thought. He hoped his hadn’t hit any villagers, but didn’t dare take his eyes off the approaching elves to check.

  The unwounded elf jumped first. His leap carried him to the top of the wall. He had a mace in his hand, and he swung it, trying to clear a path. But defenders stabbed him with swords and a pike, and he fell backward, landing on the ground below with a loud thump. The second elf sprang over his comrade’s body and, in spite of his wound, landed on top of the wall with momentum to spare. His right foot barely touched the wall, and it flexed, giving him enough spring to keep going into the village. Aric swung his rod up. It struck the elf square in the face. The speed of the elf’s forward motion combined with Aric’s powerful swing was sufficient to flatten the elf’s nose and crush his skull. He howled as his face collapsed. Blood spurted everywhere. The elf fell, inside the wall—the first raider to make it that far. But he would be no threat.

  The raiders retreated, regrouped, and attacked again.

  More villagers fell under this second assault. The raiders were less anxious to rush the walls this time, but fanned out around the village, pelting it with arrows and bolts. Every time a villager fell, another took his or her place.

  There was, however, a limited number of villagers. Soon there wouldn’t be enough to replace the dead and wounded. Aric and his companions had brought this on the village, and that certainty sat on Aric’s shoulders like a horrible weight.

  When the raiders again charged the wall, some carrying crude ladders, he and his friends fought with all the urgency of any villager. Again, they beat back the assault.

  But in another place, at the back of the village the wall was breached.

  Word spread quickly around the platforms. Raiders had made their way through, and were even now working toward the front, where they hoped to fling open the village’s only gate. Some def
enders had to leave the wall to stop them, but most had to stay at their posts to prevent more breaches.

  Hotak jumped down from the platform and ran down the street his shop was on. Aric clapped Ruhm once on the back and did the same. If the raiders got behind the defenders on the wall, they’d bring them down quickly, and then there would be no one to keep the walls from being breached or the gates opened.

  A party of raiders had reached the town square. Most villagers were at one wall or another, so defenders were sparse here, but Hotak and a few others blocked their way. Even Mazzax emerged from Hotak’s shop, holding a maul with a blunt, heavy steel head.

  When Aric joined them, a raider shouted, “You!”

  It was Ceadrin, the elf. “I thought you were dead,” Aric said.

  “No thanks to you that I’m not. He’s the reason we’re here,” Ceadrin told the villagers. “Turn over him and his friends and we’ll leave you be.”

  “It’s too late for that, elf,” Hotak said. “You’ve slain too many of ours, and you’ve been a bother too many times. We’ll end this today.”

  “Very well,” Ceadrin said. “Though you won’t like the ending.” He turned to his fellow raiders. “Kill them all, then we’ll burn this village to the ground.”

  The raiders rushed the villagers. Steel flashed and blood flew, and first one villager died, then another, and a third. Raiders fell too, but more came in from the breached wall. Aric used his iron rod like a sword and a club, striking with it, swinging it, jabbing. Hotak battled with a fine sword he had doubtless made himself. Mazzax wielded his maul with ferocity and determination.

  It began to seem as if they would repel the raiders.

  Until one of them used sorcery.

  3

  Aric should have seen it coming.

  The raiders were fighting the villagers with every weapon at their disposal. Then, as if at a prearranged signal, they drew back. The pretended to be merely catching their breath, and the villagers took advantage of the moment to do the same.