A loud bell sounded.
The whole gathering of dwarves cried out as one voice. “To first blood!”
Aaron Trollslayer charged with a mighty yell followed on either side by his two companions.
As a veteran of many battles, time seemed to slow down for Khlekluëllin and made the dwarves’ charge seem slow and clumsy. Gliding forward, Khlekluëllin freed his blade from the sheath.
Using one motion to draw and slice upwards at Aaron Trollslayer’s midsection, Khlekluëllin felt the tip of his blade make contact even as the arrogant dwarf dodged to the side knocking over one of his comrades in the process. Allowing himself a small smile of satisfaction, Khlekluëllin transferred his attention to the remaining two dwarves.
One was tangled up with Aaron Trollslayer, which meant for a brief moment it would be one-on-one. dwarf versus elf, a battle that had unfortunately been fought too many times in the past.
Khlekluëllin’s mind dallied there for a brief second or two. Why should two great nations, who shared such similar views on life, always tend to be at odds with each other? It was less than a hundred years ago when these two kingdoms last clashed. If Khlekluëllin’s memory was correct, it was over an argument about some stupid trade agreement. The two kingdoms finally worked it out but not until several hundred dwarves and elves were dead or seriously injured in a minor border clash. It was such a waste of life. Why can’t kingdoms just get along?
The whistling of a blade missing his face by mere inches brought Khlekluëllin back to reality.
Why can’t we just get along? That question rolled through his head as he went into a shoulder roll that took him several yards closer to the balcony on which the king sat.
Coming out of his roll into a kneeling position, Khlekluëllin noticed that the second dwarf had gotten himself untangled from the injured Aaron Trollslayer. Moving over to the other uninjured dwarf, they communicated briefly before moving to flank Khlekluëllin. As the two dwarves jockeyed for a more advantageous position, Khlekluëllin locked eyes with Aaron Trollslayer.
Khlekluëllin knew he wouldn’t find any love or friendship in his eyes but he had hoped to find a twinkle of respect gained between two warriors. Instead, he found only hatred; hatred for all who were different from the dwarves. A wave of sadness came over Khlekluëllin as he thought of the humility Aaron would have at the hands of his fellow dwarves for being defeated so quickly.
Although Khlekluëllin was deep in thought, part of his conscious mind was still working, that instinctive part that kicks in during combat for the two dwarves had charged suddenly. Without thinking, Khlekluëllin spun to his left bringing his sword around to deflect the onrushing sword of one dwarf, while side-stepping out of the way of the other. This quick motion caused one of the dwarves to strike his buddy with a glancing blow.
Fortunately for Khlekluëllin, it was enough to draw blood, bringing the number of his opponents down to one.
Turning to face his last opponent, they locked eyes for the first time. As they studied each other, Khlekluëllin learned much about his opponent. He could tell the dwarf was far younger than his nearly one and a quarter century. And although the young dwarf was very skilled with his blade, they both knew that Khlekluëllin’s skill was far superior.
After a moment, the dwarf lowered his head and placed his blade on the ground at the feet of the cerulean-haired elf.
With a nod of his head, Khlekluëllin sheathed his enchanted blade and picked up the short sword at his feet. The vanquished dwarf stood several feet away with his head lowered.
Moving forward, Khlekluëllin offered the sword back to its owner hilt first and said. “You and your comrades were valiant and worthy opponents. Take back your sword and may the next time you draw it in my presence let it be against a common enemy.”
Looking up, the young dwarf smiled and accepted back his weapon. “Aye. May Bromios smite us down if we ever lock weapons again!”
Slapping the young dwarf on the back, Khlekluëllin turned to face Aaron Trollslayer only to find the proud and slightly wounded dwarf storming away. He paused briefly as he met Rjurik and the king coming across the arena floor.
Whatever the king said to the wounded dwarf, Aaron didn’t like. Glancing back at Khlekluëllin, Aaron shot him the deadliest look of hatred before turning back to the exit.
As Rjurik and the king reached Khlekluëllin, the other two dwarves he had fought bowed their heads in respect to their king.
Ignoring Khlekluëllin, the king spoke directly to the dwarves in their ancient language. He didn’t understand a single word but from the tone and inflection in Padric’s voice, he surmised it to be a question. The two dwarves nodded their heads toward him, bowed deeply to their king and left without a word.
Rjurik slapped his good hand on Khlekluëllin’s backside. “Well that looked fun!”
Khlekluëllin shook his head. “It wasn’t. I don’t like to fight friends.”
“Friends?” Rjurik cocked his head toward the exit. “I don’t believe Aaron Trollslayer will agree with your definition of friends.”
Running a hand through his hair, Khlekluëllin sighed. “Agreed but that doesn’t mean I had to enjoy this.”
“Aye, I’ll grant you that one.” Rjurik turned to the King and said, “By the way cousin, where is Mortharona?”
The king gestured with one hand toward the exit and they began to walk. “He is being prepared. He will be joining us for breakfast. We have much to discuss.”
As the three warriors exited the arena, Khlekluëllin nudged his friend. “How did we do?”
Hefting a small sack tied to his waist, it jingled with the sound of numerous coins. “Pretty damn good. We’ll split it later.”
The two friends enjoyed a laugh at their winnings. Khlekluëllin noticed the king flashing him a sly grin and a quick wink. It seemed the king had also prospered from the wager. Khlekluëllin smiled to himself and followed his friends to breakfast.
When they arrived at the feast hall, a grand breakfast had already been laid out for them. A small host of dwarven warriors and Khlekluëllin’s brother were already seated at the table. As the king entered the room, the dwarves stopped eating long enough to bow toward their liege before turning back to their breakfast.
Excusing himself from the table and the conversation, Mortharona moved forward to meet the trio.
Rjurik could immediately tell there was something different about Khlekluëllin’s twin.
Dressed in black leather armor studded with bits of silver, he moved across the floor with his normal feline grace. His shoulder length black hair was neatly brushed and nearly blended into the darkness of his outfit. His ancient sword was strapped to his left hip in a black scabbard while a beautifully crafted short sword hung on his right hip in a matching scabbard.
But it was more than Mortharona’s appearance that made the difference to Rjurik. It was the sparkle in his eyes and the smile on his face as he approached his brother.
Khlekluëllin also noticed the change. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen his brother smile but he knew it was long before they had entered the Halls of Haldar.
Reaching the king, Mortharona dropped to one knee. “Greetings and well wishes to the king under the mountain; I am Mortharona Amarth, Bladeweaver of the Order of the Panther and I am at your service.”
King Padric paused before placing one hand on the kneeling elf’s shoulder. “Arise son of Circe; I am sure we can find a use for your services in the coming days.” He gestured toward the table. “For now, let us enjoy your company as we eat.”
Mortharona nodded his head. “As you wish.” Turning toward his companions with a broad grin he asked, “Well, don’t either of you have anything to say?”
Moving forward, Rjurik thumped the younger elf on the thigh. “Aye, it’s good to ‘ave you back!”
“Aye, it’s good to be back!” Mortharona said as he slapped the older dwarf on the back as he moved off to the table.
&nb
sp; Mortharona turned to face his brother not knowing what sort of reunion to expect. For a moment the two just stood there looking into each other’s eyes, searching for that connection they had shared since birth. Finding it, they could sense each other’s emotions and most basic thoughts.
Khlekluëllin moved forward to embrace his brother. “Rjurik is right; it is good to have you back.”
“As I said, it is good to be back.” Stepping back, he held his twin at arm’s length for a moment. “I’m sorry if I have said or done anything to hurt you.”
Khlekluëllin shook his head. “Don’t worry. It’s in the past.” He turned back to the table. “Let’s eat, I’m starving.”
The two brothers moved to the table to join the dwarves who already had a head start on them. Khlekluëllin couldn’t remember when the last time he enjoyed a meal so much. The dwarves, who are usually quiet and reserved in the company of non-dwarves, were a boisterous and talkative bunch including Padric and Rjurik. What really surprised Khlekluëllin was his twin. Mortharona joined in the conversation laughing and joking with the best of the dwarves. Gone was the crass, filthy, obnoxious, pessimist Mortharona had become over the past several months and in its place was the happy-go-lucky brother Khlekluëllin had grown up with.
For at least one meal, the blue haired elf was at peace. He only wished his sister could be here. As his thoughts began to drift off, a half eaten leg of lamb hit him in the face and knocked him to the floor as the whole table roared with laughter.
Looking up, Khlekluëllin saw the king waving the half eaten leg bone at him. “We’ll ‘ave none of that during breakfast!”
Wiping the grease from his face he asked, “What? Have…have none of what?”
King Padric reached down to help Khlekluëllin stand. “Thinking about the future. Now is the time to celebrate the moment! We ‘ave the reunion of old friends to celebrate and the lives of lost comrades to toast!”
Raising the lamb leg like a sword, the king thrust it into the air. “Let us eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we may die!”
The table cheered at the king’s words.
Khlekluëllin looked around him. A brief flash of insight filled him and for a moment he understood the dwarves. They knew a great storm was brewing on the horizon, one that threatened their very way of life. They could sense that their future was dark and many of those gathered would not live to see the end of spring. But instead of being sullen about it, they chose to accept it. The dwarves were going to die the same way they had lived for generations, as warriors; celebrating the here and now, not worrying about tomorrow.
Looking at the dwarves that surrounded him, Khlekluëllin could see that each carried the sadness of the future like a burden. Even now it was there, in the back of the minds or in the corner of their eyes but they wouldn’t let it ruin their celebration. That burden was for tomorrow not today. There was a crazy kind of logic to that type of thinking.
Grabbing his mug of ale, Khlekluëllin hoisted it high. He thought, ‘Yes…let’s eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow many of us will die.’
Chapter 17
It had taken nearly a month for the refugees from Itasca to reach Sikya.
Even though they had killed or disabled at least half of Blackfang’s army, the cost had been high. They had lost nearly half of the wolf tribe and nearly a quarter of every other tribe. The greatest blow had been the loss of Golden Wind, the puma warlord.
The pursuing army had made a surprise night attack which had caught the exhausted refugees off guard. Golden Wind had rallied the defenders while the sick and injured were moved. Even then, he could’ve escaped but when a young warrior of the fox tribe had fallen behind, the puma warlord leapt to his aid and killed ten hobgoblins before falling in battle. Everyone would mourn his loss but the Highlanders realized that the price of freedom was purchased with the blood of warriors.
Odovacar, Nilrem and Chewda expertly lead the refugees through the wilderness of the Highlands. They were constantly on the move, only stopping long after dark to make camp, eat a cold dinner and get a few hours rest before doing it all over again. They took turns leading counterattacks against the pursuers. Soon the scouts begin bringing in reports concerning the condition of Itasca. The majority of the Dark Alliance army had made camp in its ruins and crucified any survivors they found. Then, they staked the corpses all over the city until it was nothing but a valley of the dead.
When they were two days outside of Sikya, the armies of the Dark Alliance broke off their pursuit. Odovacar had scouts follow them but from all reports they were retreating. Without the pursuing army on their heels, the refugees would’ve liked to rest longer than a few hours but the weather had turned bad and the snow fell constantly. Odovacar, Nilrem and Chewda had no choice but to push through the storm. They might lose some in the blizzard but to stay was to die for certain. Rallying the refugees with tales of warmth and plenty to eat, the three warlords drove the disheartened troops westward. One group of refugees refused to move.
Since it was Nilrem’s turn to pull up the rearguard, it was left to him to deal with the problem. The rest of the army had already moved off to the west and Nilrem was alone; just the way he liked it.
He knew two things about the group before he entered their tipi, they were all youngsters and the spokesperson of the small band of malcontents was from the puma tribe. Entering the largest of the three tipis, Nilrem took in the sight. There were a total of ten warriors and three females. He recognized the markings of the puma, fox and owl tribes on the deserters.
The puma warlord stepped forward. “Greeting Nilrem Bluebear, we meet again.”
Nilrem studied the bold spokesman. He was young, probably no more than twenty or twenty-five summers old and acted as if they had met before but Nilrem couldn’t remember where, other than possibly a brief conversation at one of the war councils. That was until he noticed that the young warlord was missing the tip of his left ear and the memory of Red Eagle’s challenge flooded over him.
“Tocho,” he said with a brief nod. He had decided to give the deserters a second chance so he added, “It seems that you are slow at packing this morning. I am here to offer my help.”
Tocho frowned. “We are not slow; we aren’t planning on moving today.”
“Ah….you have someone injured who cannot be moved. Why didn’t you say so? I would’ve brought one of the shamans with me.”
Tocho shook his head. “There are no injuries here. We are just not moving.”
Nilrem scratched his chin and looked around at the rest gathered. None would meet his gaze. Turning his attention back once more to the puma warlord, he tried to give them one more chance to get moving voluntarily. “I know everyone is tired but we are only a few days shy of Sikya, we can rest there.”
“Yes we are tired but that is not why we are not moving. We aren’t going to Sikya.”
Nilrem took a deep breath. He had hoped that the deserters weren’t this stupid and forced him into this position but obviously they were. Frowning, Nilrem furrowed his brow. “I’m sorry, I must be getting old. I know you didn’t just tell me that you aren’t following the rightful orders of the War Council, right?”
Tocho bowed himself up to his full height of six feet which was still much smaller than the impressive frame of Nilrem. Tocho raised one finger. “First off,we weren’t a part of the decision and…”
Whatever else he was about to say was cut off when Nilrem’s hand grabbed him by the throat. The other warlords in the tipi pulled out their weapons and prepared to attack. Nilrem ignored them for the moment and lifted the young warlord off the ground. The battlelord brought the struggling warlord to his face and began to squeeze.
“Listen here youngster. You were disrespectful to Hawkeye in our war council, not once but twice and he let you live. Then, you challenged Red Eagle. When you lost, you failed to admit you were beaten without an incentive after she cut off your ear. You are obviously a slow learner.”
&nbs
p; The puma warlord struggled to break free of the iron grip that was crushing his windpipe. He even tried to transform into his more powerful hybrid form but since he couldn’t breathe, Tocho couldn’t concentrate and the change never happened.
Nilrem glared at the warriors around him for a brief second before continuing his rant.
“Then, you chose to work against the leader selected by our goddess by leading these young highlanders astray. Worse than that, you chose to do it on my watch. That is something I cannot allow.”
By this time, Tocho was unconscious but Nilrem was no longer talking to him. He was talking to the rest of the deserters, trying to give them a chance at redemption.
“For all I know, you are a Blackfang sympathizer planning on leading these fine young Highlanders to their doom. Of course, you know that the punishment for desertion or sympathizing with the enemy is death.”
With that, Nilrem squeezed one last time and the popping of bones filled the tipi. Dropping the corpse, he looked at those gathered one more time. He saw fear in their eyes; fear of him, fear of the unknown, fear of the future. He knew at that moment that it was his duty to give them back their courage.
“The sympathizer is dead. His mission has failed. Whatever spell he had cast over you is gone. You are now able to rejoin our people with your heads held high since no harm had been done.”
Several of the young warriors understood what he was saying immediately and put away their weapons. The others soon got the hint. Within minutes, all three tipis were down and the small band was back on their way to Sikya.
As they crested the hill, Nilrem looked back and said, “I’m sorry.”
Only the corpse of Tocho remained…untouched and unburied.
Chapter 18
In the first few days out to sea, Hawkeye learned a lot about ships. And one of his greatest sources of information was Holmaan the dwarf. He was the ship’s quartermaster which meant that he was in charge of navigation, charts and the ship’s primary helmsman but he also seemed to have the most time to explain all things nautical to a landlubber like Hawkeye.
Tales of the Wolf: Book 02 - Enter the Wolf Page 14