A Sea of Skulls (Arts of Dark and Light Book 2)

by Vox Day

  Magnus raised his hand and the Cernobians subsided. He nodded in satisfaction. “You have chosen wisely, my friends. I will not let you down.”

  Then he walked towards Annius. The men intervening moved out of his way, until the two men were standing face to face. They were very nearly of a height, Aulan noted, although Magnus was half again heavier than the Cernobian man. Neither of them spoke, but locked eyes in a contest of wills. Annius’s pride was such that he lasted longer than Aulan would have guessed, but finally the white-haired elder looked away.

  “I will not stand in your way, Valerius Magnus. But neither will I support you.”

  Magnus slowly shook his head. “Neither your support nor your opposition concerns me, Annius. You are an elder of this village. Advise me. When a host sells his guest to his enemy and his treachery is discovered, what is his rightful reward?”

  “Death,” Annius answered without flinching. He glanced over at Aulan and his men. “I am not afraid.”

  “I should hope not at your age,” Magnus said wryly, prompting nervous laughter from the men around him. “I will not kill a man for being misguided in his loyalties, not unless he insists upon standing in my way. Leave tonight, Lucius Annius. Amorr’s gates may be closed to you, but Trivicum’s are not. For my part, I will spare you and we will forget this ever happened.”

  For a moment, it seemed as if the haughty man would reject Magnus’s mercy. But discretion proved the better part of pride, and at last Annius nodded briskly. He turned and made his way through the hushed crowd, followed by three of his companions, whose expressions ranged the gamut from shocked to relieved.

  “Now, friends, we have much to discuss!” Magnus lifted his arms and smiled beatifically at the men who had chosen to cast their lot with him. But first, I understand there are men who know their wine in Cernobus. Shall we refresh ourselves?”

  The assembly broke up in a chaotic manner, as some hurried home to tell their wives of the momentous events and others pressed forward to greet Magnus and assure him of their personal loyalty. But Magnus put them off momentarily with the help of his bodyguard, and beckoned for Aulan to come to him.

  Aulan dismounted and approached, curious as to what the great man wanted. Magnus thumped his back and put a beefy arm around his armored shoulders. “Well done, son. Your timing couldn’t have been better.”

  “It was no problem at all. I hope that Lucretius does come back to us. He’s sensible.”

  “He will,” Magnus said confidently. “Get his men good and drunk tonight. We need them.”

  “I saw a cathouse or two on the way in. I imagine between Marinus, Possidius, and me, we can make a persuasive case.”

  “I have the utmost confidence in you three,” Magnus laughed. Then he lowered his voice. “You marked the man who spoke out?”

  “I did.”

  “Tell Lucarus to take a squadron and intercept him five leagues hence.”

  Aulan nodded, unsurprised. Magnus wasn’t one to leave an enemy at his back if he didn’t have to. “Just the old man or do you wish there to be no survivors?”

  The ex-consul clapped him again on the back. “I think it would be best if the decurion were to be thorough, Aulus Severus. I understand bandits are a terrible problem on the roads in these uncertain times.”

  Lodi

  It was good to be underground again. After helping Valerius Clericus and his legion safely escape through the roots of the Tessini mountains, Lodi had turned to the east and begun his long, laborious journey back to Iron Mountain. Unfortunately, there was no direct system of tunnels connecting the realm of the Dikhizhod dwarves to the royal mountains north of the Greenwaste, which was a problem considering that the vast forest had been heavily infested by orcs since the last time he’d been there. So, instead of attempting to retrace his path through the elven lands of Merithaim, he had traveled south, through the Man lands, and taken ship at Avarus. He crossed the sea to Amorr, the great Man city in which he’d been forced to fight as a slave for the entertainment of the tall barbarians, then found another ship that carried him to Thursia.

  The Man ships were a marginally more comfortable way to travel than on the back of an elven warhawk, and they were certainly faster than walking on dwarven legs across half the continent. The Man lords might be at war with each other, but as far as Lodi could tell, their merchants still haggled and bickered and traded and sailed as if nothing at all had changed. No foreigners were being permitted inside Amorr’s city walls, but the only consequence was that the trader’s markets had moved outside the walls and prices were duly increased to account for the cartmen who charged a handsome rate to transport goods the two leagues it took to reach the imperial city by land.

  He lost two days at Amorr waiting for a Thursian ship, but finally found a captain of a small shallow-bottomed ship who was carrying pig iron to his home port in support of the rebel provincials there. Lodi found it remarkable that men would sell other men the very means that were intended for use against them, but he had spent enough time above ground in the Man lands that he had learned not to question the various idiosyncrasies of the tall ones. In any event, it wasn’t his concern and he expected that the men of Thursia would soon find that the orcs advancing southward amounted to a more pressing problem than whatever their current differences of opinion with their Amorran brethren might be.

  From the port he made his way north, occasionally alone, sometimes in the company of traders who were pleased to have their small parties augmented by a dwarf armed with a battle axe. He managed to procure a crossbow from one Man who was bringing a load of furs south to the port; it was a cheap and shoddy piece of work, but with a little effort he was able to add a pair of small wooden plates that better stabilized the nut. It was probably a fool’s comfort, he told himself, but possessing it made him feel safer nonetheless.

  And he needed that comfort, as he spent three days going back and forth across the border that separated the Amorran Empire from what were theoretically the Elflands. But he saw no sign of elves, indeed, he saw few signs of anyone in the wooded foothills under which lay one of the arteries of the great triumph of his people, the Dwarroways. There were scores of access points to the vast system of tunnels that ran under the earth and stone of northern and eastern Selenoth.

  Built over the centuries, some were boltholes secretly opening into the Man and Elf lands and designed to provide a means of escape, or alternatively, invasion. The Dwarroways did not yet reach into the Amorran Empire proper, as the way for which he was searching was among the closest, but they did extend into Savondir, Malkan, Merithaim, and even to the underground river that flowed beneath the High Elven capital of Elebrion. Prior to the unexpected rise of the Troll King, Guldur Goblinsbane, that led to the siege of Iron Mountain, one of the primary subjects of discussion in the Iron King’s Court had been the construction of the first major addition to the Dwarroways in over a century.

  But he could not find the one that he recalled was somewhere in the vicinity. The system used to locate a Dwarrowdoor in the mountains, which was where most of them were located, simply did not work in the forests and he could not seem to find the caves that he knew would be used to hide the door. Every dwarf who left the safety of the world to walk upon the bright and hostile overground was instructed in the art of the Dwarrowdoors as well as their locations, but since Lodi had not expected to be traveling in this area, he was somewhat foggy on the specific details of where it was to be found.

  He had a map, of course, but it was of severely limited utility in that it featured nothing more informative than an X marked crudely in the general area north of the line that demarcated the border. But since there was nothing to mark the actual border, not even a natural landmark such as a river, a mountain range, or even a sizable hill, he was left to search the wilderness for a door that was intentionally hidden. His prospects of success, he concluded grimly, were poor. And yet, what were his alternatives? To march northward and hope he managed to evade
the various greenskins infesting the forest? Return south and wait for a dwarven party more familiar with the local terrain?

  After three days of fruitless searching, he decided to devote two more days to finding the Dwarrowdoor, after which he would attempt to travel through Merithaim and hope that he could somehow avoid any elves, orcs, or goblins. The elves might be less inclined to intentionally slay him out of hand, but then, if they were on the war footing he assumed them to be, they would be likely to loose arrows first and ask questions later. And even if they were sincerely apologetic, apologies had never been known to raise a dwarf from the dead.

  He was still searching for the door when he encountered the goblins.

  He sensed the presence of danger in the air a moment before it arrived. Perhaps it was the sudden silence in the trees around him. Perhaps it was the sensation of enemy eyes upon him. Or perhaps it was simply the hard-won experience of a dwarf who had survived the great Arena of Amorr by learning to trust in his instincts. Regardless, something made him stop and sniff suspiciously at the air. It was a scent he knew all too well.

  Goblins… goblin wolfriders, to be exact. He cursed under his breath, knowing it would do him no good to run or even hide, not with the noses on the shaggy, long-legged beasts that the goblin light cavalry rode. He set his axe down upon a nearby tree, then wound the crank on his crossbow and slipped a bolt into the slot. Returning it, now loaded, to his belt, he picked up his axe and held it in both hands, peering intently into the shadows of the surrounding trees. This was as good a place to die as any other, he told himself grimly, but he vowed that he would not do so alone.

  “Come on out, ye cowards,” he roared in the direction he suspected them to be. “Fear to face a lone dwarf, does ye?”

  A wolf growled behind him, and he whirled around to see a pair of riders emerging from either side of a large oak tree. They were scrawny, ill-favored creatures, with pinched, pale green faces and yellow eyes that stared at him in a frighteningly hungry manner. He could see the ribs on their beasts; it was apparent that neither the wolves nor their riders had been eating well in recent days. Troll, orc or goblin, logistics had never been the strongest suit of the various greenskin generals. Both goblins were armed with long wooden lances that would serve equally well as spear or cooking spit, and based on the smiles that exposed their sharp, jagged teeth, Lodi could see they were anticipating dwarf for dinner come evening.

  Another pair of riders came into view, followed by three more. Given the light leather armor that hung loosely over their thin-chested torsos, it appeared as if he had run into an entire patrol of scouts. Had they been stalking him or was this merely misfortune? He shrugged. It really didn’t matter. Against two, he might have had a chance. Against seven, his only hope was that they would run away after he killed their leader.

  But their desperate state dashed even that remote hope. Half-starved and probably half-mad with hunger, Lodi knew neither wolves nor goblins would be even remotely dissuaded by the threat of losing two or three of their number. He hefted his axe, wondering if he should charge them or wait for them to come at him. The decision was made for him when the first goblin reached down the other side of his wolf before producing a bow as well as a quiver of short, black-feathered arrows that he slung over his shoulder. The goblin strung the bow in two simple moves, and the expert ease with which it did so caused Lodi’s heart to sink.

  So, Lodi didn’t wait for the archer to nock an arrow to the string. He released his axe with his right hand and let the heavy double-bladed head fall to the ground as he unslung his crossbow from a hook on his belt and raised it with lethal intent. The goblin’s eyes widened, and two of its comrades shouted, but before any of them could move, the crossbow thrummed and the bolt slammed into the archer’s throat. Lodi had actually been aiming at the goblin’s chest, but it appeared the weapon had a tendency to shoot high.

  He didn’t hesitate, but took advantage of the goblins’ momentary surprise to charge at them, dropping the crossbow and sweeping up the shaft of the heavy battleaxe to balance it in both hands. He lopped off the front third of the lance that was feebly poked in his direction with a half-swing, then punched the axe’s spike right through the skull of the goblin who’d stabbed the lance at him. Its wolf snarled and slashed at him, and he felt a burning pain sear his left forearm as he pulled the axe free of the spasming goblin. He smashed the butt of the axe against the wolf’s muzzle and it leaped away yelping, leaving its rider to die on the ground behind it.

  Before he could turn around, however, he felt something punch through his armor as it drove all the way through his left shoulder. Caught by surprise by the unexpected eruption of pain in his back, he uttered a most undwarfish cry. The object—it was a lance—was removed almost as quickly as it had struck, but as the goblin rode past him, its wolf ripped at the back of his left leg with its fangs. Already off-balance, Lodi fell to the ground in agony. But he fought through the pain to roll over, even though he knew there was little point in continued resistance. He planted the butt of his axe on the ground and pulled himself up to his feet, even as a goblin bared its yellow teeth at him and kicked its snarling wolf forward. Lodi supposed he might be able to duck under goblin’s lance, but he didn’t have the strength to lift his weapon, and he knew that the wolf would be going right for his throat if its rider failed to spit him on the knotted wood of the rudely constructed lance.

  As the wolfrider rushed towards him, he dropped his axe and threw himself to the side, narrowly avoiding the fire-blackened tip that was aimed at his chest. What he would do next, he didn’t know; his immediate priority was to avoid impalement. But the expected wolf-attack didn’t come. Instead, he heard a pair of crossbows thrum, and heard a goblin shriek in what could have been fear, pain, or outrage. The sound of a dwarven battle cry inspired him with new hope, and he rolled over twice more before daring to push himself up using his right hand.

  Four goblins and two wolves were already lying dead or dying on the grass. A fifth goblin toppled screaming from its mount, as its pathetic wooden shield and its shield arm were sheared through in a single axestroke by a powerful black-bearded dwarf wearing full plate armor. Its screaming stopped a moment later with the backswing. Before it had even fallen, the other two wolfriders turned tail and fled, followed closely by the three surviving wolves, one of which was limping badly.

  A second dwarf with a long red beard bent over to retrieve Lodi’s axe and offered it to him. “We’d better get you under before they come back in strength. They’ll want the bodies, if nothing else. Can you walk?”

  Lodi glared at the red-bearded dwarf. “Of course I can walk!”

  He took one hobbled step, then another. Then he pointed to his left calf, which was bleeding badly enough that he wasn’t sure he could walk far without collapsing. The torn flesh was visible through the shredded leather of his boot. “Any chance you could tie that up first, though?”

  A black-bearded dwarf wearing chain mail with a crossbow slung over his shoulder had already drawn a knife and was starting to kneel down behind him. In a matter of moments, he had adroitly cut through the back of Lodi’s boot, washed out the wounds with a pungent spirit that made Lodi gasp, and bound Lodi’s calf tightly enough to stop the bleeding. He also soaked a cloth and pressed it into Lodi’s shoulder; Lodi gritted his teeth as the alcohol seemed to ignite the wound with fire.

  “This might help,” he said, offering the tin flask containing the spirit to Lodi. “We don’t have time to do anything more for your shoulder now. Don’t look like it pierced your lung, so you’ll make it.”

  “What are you doing here?” Lodi asked. Whatever it was, the spirit was strong enough to make his head spin merely from scenting it. He took a careful sip and blinked in disbelief as it burned its way down his gullet. If nothing else, it would take the edge off the pain in his arm, shoulder, and leg. He took a longer swig, then handed it back to the other dwarf.

  “We’re the local High Guard. The King
ordered the sealing of all the skydoors two days from now, so we’ve been keeping an eye out for stragglers. We saw you tramping around here yesterday, but lost sight of you before we could find you.”

  “The skydoors are being sealed?”

  “War is on the way, friend. It weren’t no accident that those wolfriders was about these parts. The orcs is on the march, the elves is gearing up, and men be already fighting amongst themselves. The king don’t want no part of none of it, so we’ll hunker down and go about our business while the skydwellers slaughter each other.”

  Lodi wasn’t sure that was either a wise option or a genuine one, considering the size of the army he’d seen months ago, and he was astonished to learn that the war hadn’t already begun in earnest. It seemed that the vast gathering of orc tribes he’d seen on the east side of the Greenwaste had barely stirred itself while he’d been trudging halfway across Selenoth and back.

  “What’s your name, straggler” the big dwarf wearing plate armor asked as the red-bearded dwarf helped Lodi support his weight on his left side. On the other side, he used his axe as an impromptu crutch. “And what sort of piss-poor clan cuts its beards off like that?”

  “Lodi, son of Dunmorin, of the South Goloi Vein.”

  “I heard of them,” the dwarf supporting him said. “They own a couple of good mines right near the royal mountain.”

  “What happened to your beard, Lodi, son of Dunmorin?”

  “Was a slave in Amorr until about a year ago.”

  “Amorr?” The two dwarves looked at each other, puzzled. “Never heard of it.”

  Lodi laughed, then grimaced. “Big Man city. Long way southwest of here. They shave the dwarves they catch.”

  “The King knows about this?” Red Beard asked. His eyes were narrow with fury.