A Balance Broken (Dragonsoul Saga)

by Hartke, J. T.

  “I believe you were their true target in Dadric, Tallen.” Boris softened his expression. “They killed your friend and the young man by mistake – as I originally suspected.” He looked at Magus Britt. “The braid confirms it.”

  “Why take her hair?” Tallen’s mind went numb with grief. Tears crept out from under his eyelids. His head hurt with the pain of suppressing them.

  “A trophy.” Magus Britt’s tone remained soft. “Blond hair is very rare in the Northlands.”

  Jaerd raised his hand in the air like a student in class. “If I may, sirs? They did not seek to kill him tonight. In fact, they went out of their way to keep him alive.”

  Boris nodded, scrubbing his mustache with his hand. “Yes, Captain. I think they followed your brother that night at the Sowing Festival. His confrontation with the victims probably saved his life. The orcs tracked him and Jennette into the warehouses, but found Jennette and Ardric when they made their move.” The Bluecloak sipped his brandy. “They wanted Tallen alive. When they discovered that Ardric was not Tallen, they killed both young people to cover their tracks.”

  Duke Aginor paced from the door to the fire. “How did they get into my city? What do they want with this boy?”

  Magus Britt pointed to the glasses and decanter. The duke nodded with a tip of his glass. The mage poured a drink and took a long gulp. “I don’t know the answer to either of those questions,” he said at last with a deep breath. “I will find the answer. I will begin by returning to the morgue.” He topped off the glass before he nodded to the duke and Boris, and then headed toward the door. At the last moment he stopped, squinting at Maddi. “You have the healer’s Talent, don’t you girl? Do not deny it. I can see it almost as clearly as I see the power in untrained mages.” Magus Britt looked to Boris. “We must take her to Daynon as well. We need her kind as much as we need mages.”

  Boris raised an eyebrow. “You knew this, young lady?”

  Scooting back in her seat, Maddi folded her arms. “I have been told of the possibility. However, I have not yet had a true Doctor open my Talent. I was told I would have the best success at the Doctor’s College in Daynon.”

  Nodding, Magus Britt kept his gaze fixed on Maddi. It reminded Tallen of the night he had met the Battlemage in the Sleeping Gryphon.

  I almost feel sorry for her.

  Magus Britt grasped the door handle. “Then Daynon is where we will take you.” He stepped out, mumbling. “I have ravens to send tonight.”

  Offering a hand to Maddi, Boris took a step closer to the divan. “Then you will accompany us to Daynon.”

  Maddi exploded from her seat. “This is not right! I should have some say in what happens with my life! I have cannot abandon my herbalist shop here.” Her eyes glittered in the firelight, squinting in anger. “I also own a home in Bailey Square. What am I to do with that?”

  Boris held firm but shifted his offered hand to a placating gesture. “I am sorry, miss, but you have been involved in a very violent affair, one that must be kept secret for now.” He cocked an eye at her. “I can tell your accent is from the Free Cities – Dern if I’m not mistaken.” He picked at a stray ash upon the fireplace mantle. “Strange that so young a woman, a foreigner from such a small town, would own property in one of the nicest districts within the capital of the Western Realm.”

  A portion of the anger slipped from Maddi’s face. She nibbled at a lip, and the squint of her eyes refocused. “That is not fair. My father died and left me an inheritance. I brought it here because I thought this was a free country.” She pulled at a long strand of her glossy, near-black hair. It glittered like onyx in the firelight when she twisted it. “Perhaps I was wrong.”

  Boris pursed his lips. “No one is truly free from all duty. Especially when calamity comes calling.”

  The duke stepped away from the fireplace. “My dear, I will see that your possessions are secured. I assure you my clerks will make full inventory of everything.”

  Maddi frowned. “Much of my inventory will spoil if left uncared for. Who is going to pay for that?”

  Boris raised a finger. “I will. We will also take care of any expenses you have at the College.”

  Raising an eyebrow, Maddi’s face slipped from scowl to grin. “And a stipend?”

  The earl could not help a small grin of his own. “Perhaps. Do not push your luck too far with me, my dear.”

  Excited that Maddi would join them, Tallen sank back into his seat. His eyes returned to Jennette’s braid, nestled in the palm of his hand. His chest heated, and a great pressure pulsed at his temples. Two crystal drops fell from his eyes onto the golden locks. I had thought my feelings for her dealt with, but I… Another droplet fell, and he sniffed.

  Retaking her seat next to him, Maddi leaned toward Tallen. “Were the two of you close?” Her voice hummed in his ear, soft and sweet. She reached out her hand and placed it upon his wrist. “I’m sorry. I know the pain of loss.”

  Tallen dabbed his eyes with a sleeve. I doubt I look much the wizard to her, wiping tears with my robe.

  “We were close, at one point.” The words weighed heavy on his spirit. “Though we grew apart in the last year, I suppose.”

  Maddi nodded and patted his wrist. Her sympathy helped him maintain control, but he could not entirely hide his emotions.

  “You must use this, Tallen.” Boris formed his hands into fists that shook with intensity. “Use it to drive your training. Think of the pain you feel right now when you hear of the deaths of your countrymen. Each of them leaves others behind who also feel the pain you harbor now.” The Bluecloak put a hand on Tallen’s shoulder. “This is why we do what we do – because we know the suffering and because we know it is right to fight it. The greatest test for those who are strong is in what they do with that strength – and in how they treat those who are weak.”

  Nodding his head, Tallen tossed Jennette’s hair into the fire. “May she rest in the Waters.” It curled and blackened, before disappearing in gray smoke.

  Arguments abound as to what exactly caused the Cataclysm. Most mages blame the wild use of magic at the end of the Dragon Wars for setting off a chain reaction. The Temple claims that it was due to a terrible skewing of the Balance. No written records remain from the time, save among the Elves. Those few texts are rarely shown to human eyes. When asked about the cause, the Elven ambassador to the Royal Court simply said, “Foolishness.”

  —Baelor Magdon’s “What We Know of the Elder Days”

  Slar spat a gobbet of dust and phlegm onto the ground. His arm scraped at the sweat and grime upon his brow until Radgred handed him a goatskin of water. The cool sweetness ran down his dry throat, cooling his insides.

  “Blackstone was much nicer.” The old sergeant closed the last flap over the pole Slar had just hoisted. “These huts won’t last us through the winter.”

  “We won’t need them then.” Slar took another slurp from the goatskin and wiped his chin with the back of his fist. “Those left behind here will have begun construction of a far greater fortress than Blackstone. You and I will be long gone.”

  Radgred grunted agreement. “Let us hope so.”

  Slar picked up a folded doeskin, wiping the remainder of the sweat from his brow and neck with its soft surface. He sighed. “Midsummer arrives soon. It will be Sharrog’s naming day.”

  The old orc’s brow creased beyond his age and battle wrinkles. “I am glad you two have begun speaking again after your disagreement at Blackstone.” He took his own sip from the waterskin. “But I can tell that things are still not right between you.”

  Slinging the doeskin around his neck, Slar shook his head. “My son and I do not see eye to eye on Galdreth, nor on our battle plan.” He started back through the trees toward the cavern entrance into the depths of Dragonsclaw. “However, he will come around when our forces gather. The power of Galdreth is undeniable
.”

  Following at a short distance, Radgred scratched at an ear. “I hope so.” He raised an eyebrow. “What of Grindar? How go his training maneuvers?”

  Slar smiled. “Grindar will be chieftain of the Boar Clan someday, like is grandfather before. He knows how to command warriors, and how to earn their respect.” He watched a hawk alight upon the dead branch of an old pine tree. “My eldest will lead the Boar warriors when we make our move.”

  The hole in the side of the mountain gaped at them, and they climbed toward it, leaving the Boar Clan tents down on the lower slopes of Dragonsclaw. Inside the cavern’s mouth, Slar made out the lodges of shamans from four clans. The fools claim they desire to be closer to Galdreth, yet I know each one of them shakes in their cowl when the spirit appears.

  Radgred growled at the sight of the lodges. “You should have a Warchief’s lodge here among them. It is not right that you stay in your small tent among the Boar. You command all the clans in Galdreth’s name.” Radgred turned and headed for the tents of their clan. “I will see to it immediately.”

  Slar reached out to stop his friend until he saw the expression on Radgred’s face. “Very well. If I must play the part.”

  Radgred stopped, pointing his finger at Slar. “You play no part!” He barked, the yellow-clawed finger stabbing at Slar again. “You are the Warchief!”

  I’ve never seen such wrath from Radgred. At least not aimed at me. Slar nodded to his longtime friend and advisor. “Your words ring true, as always. However, you will join me there as my second. I will not suffer alone.”

  Nodding in acquiescence, Radgred lowered the finger. “As you wish, Warchief. It will be a grand lodge indeed.” He resumed his jog back down the hill.

  Shaking his head, Slar turned to enter the cavern. The shamans within it weighed upon his mind. Boar and Ram. Now Shark and Wolf. Soon the Bear and the Snake. How will I manage them all?

  Slowing his pace to think, Slar allowed the surrounding forest to distract him. The trees rose to great heights, spread wide with summer-green branches. Squirrels scampered from limb to limb, chattering throughout the chase of their courtship. The politics of the clans wandered far from his mind.

  “Ho, there, old comrade.” A voice broke into his thoughts. Fargon of the Wolf Clan trotted up from the slopes on which the Wolves had gathered their tents.

  “I welcome you, my friend.” Slar slapped a fist to his chest. “How did you fare in your travels?”

  “They were calm.” Fargon bowed his head, before reaching out a hand of greeting.

  Slar grabbed it with a hearty clasp. “Has your father come?” Trepidation laced his voice, for Slar knew he would need the other chieftains to balance the power of the shamans in council.

  “Valgrar gathers more of our people.” Fargon held his pink eyes steady. “I lead the twenty thousand Wolf warriors who now gather on the lower shoulders of Dragonsclaw.” He released Slar’s wrist with the friendly growl of comrades. “Over five thousand Sharks have come too, a big number for their small tribe.” Fargon cast his eyes back down the slope he had climbed. “The Sharks delivered the teams as you commanded, and now ply the waters of the Teeth.”

  Slar nodded his head. “Their longboats have been invaluable to our cause.” He gestured for Fargon to join him. “I have a favor to ask of you, my old friend.”

  Fargon laughed from his belly. “Twenty thousand warriors is not a favor already?”

  Slar smiled. “It is indeed. But this is something more subtle.”

  Laughing even louder, Slar’s childhood friend slapped his knee. “Subtlety is not a trait for a Wolf. Perhaps you should ask a Snake when they arrive.”

  A bitter smile crossed Slar’s lips. “I will likely ask the same of Sarinn or his sons when they arrive, but I need your help most of all.”

  Slowing his steps, Fargon placed his hand upon Slar’s shoulder. “What is it you need, Warchief?”

  His eyes are so like Nalan’s, so like Naleera’s were. Those pink eyes run deep in the blood of the Wolves. They were part of what drew me to her. “It is a simple thing,” Slar stated.

  Fargon paused a moment. “Then ask.”

  Slar folded his hands behind his back as he walked. “I need you to place your chieftain’s lodge within the mouth of the cavern. Radgred has insisted I place mine there.” He paused, the cavern just within view beyond the trees. He watched a few orcs in wolfskin capes enter its shadow. “We must make certain that the chieftains speak for the people. The shamans are only interested in speaking for Galdreth.”

  Fargon frowned. “I thought you spoke for Galdreth.”

  Thoughts of his argument with Sharrog floated through Slar’s mind. “I do. But I also speak for our people.”

  Slar remained silent while they marched the rest of the way up the slope. The hulking black mass of the mountain hanging over them reminded Slar of his future. Something dark and shadowy hung over it as well, and he could not shake a deep foreboding.

  Within the outer mouth of the cave, nearly two dozen lodges of varying size perched on rocky outcroppings. A labyrinth of passages twisted into the mountain’s bowels behind them. Slar knew what lay in those depths. That’s why I had hoped to stay out in the open with my people for as long as we could. But these shamans are fools. They seek to be closer to Galdreth. My heart tries to push me away. “At least our people will find glory on the path,” he whispered, distracted by his thoughts.

  “It will not be so difficult living among them.” Fargon raised his eyes to the group of orcs hoisting lodges for the Wolf shamans. “A dozen of them came with me. More may come with father.” He smiled at Slar. “Perhaps the Wolf shamans listen to their chieftains more than in your clans.”

  “You just wait until they get together with the others.” Slar snorted. “Shamans stick together, even across clan lines.”

  Fargon raised an eyebrow in thought. “Perhaps then, we chieftains must stick together as well.” Cupping his mouth with his hands, he shouted to the orcs setting up lodges. “Hoy! When you finish those, bring my lodge up here. The chieftains shall join Warchief Slar within the halls of Dragonsclaw!”

  In response, Brother Ortax sidled over from a cluster of shamans. “Warchief, it is an honor to have you among the camp of shamans. But what is this about you setting a tent here?” He shrugged his shoulders. “I had thought you planned to stay among our people. Will they not need your guidance?”

  Oh, now I am definitely setting my lodge here. “Our people have many sources of guidance,” Slar said, squinting his eyes to examine Ortax. “Our shamans will need guidance from their Warchief as well.” Murmurs floated through the knot of Ortax’s allies. “Let us not forget whom Galdreth has chosen.”

  The murmurs stopped.

  Brother Ortax raised an eyebrow. “Speaking of those our master has chosen – how goes the search for Galdreth’s vessel? Is that not one of your most important charges from our master?”

  Balling clawed hands into fists, Slar craved the feel of his scimitar, but it lay in his lodge down with the Boar Clan. “Elite squads are now operating within Gannon.” He held his voice even. “All you need know is that the vessel is being tracked.” He folded his arms to squelch the longing to caress his absent sword. “A major asset has been moved into place. Galdreth has also explained to me that there are other powers beyond the Clans that search for the vessel.”

  Ortax scoffed. “Like the dragons?” Other shamans grumbled. “Their raid upon the dwarves did nothing save expose our hand. It wasted several of their strongest. Other dragons have since abandoned us.”

  “Most of their numbers remain at Galdreth’s command,” Slar said, raising his wide, dimpled chin. “Dozens of them rest within the deeper mountains, not far from here. They will be ready when needed.” He pointed his finger at Ortax. “You need not worry about dragons or the other powers at Galdreth’s call. You nee
d only worry about what our master demands of you.”

  The rustle of dozens of feet born down with heavy loads shuffled behind him. Slar turned to see Radgred leading a group of orcs carrying the components of his lodge. Behind him strutted Balthor of the Ram and his own lodge bearers. Farther down the slope came a group of Wolves and Sharks with poles and skins for at least two more dwellings.

  “Warchief,” Radgred called. “Your honor guard brings your lodge so that you, the chosen of Galdreth, may rest within our master’s holy mountain.” He spread his scarred arms. “Your chieftains join you at your command.”

  “Hoy! Hoy!” Fargon saluted fist to heart and bowed his head.

  All those who came with Radgred followed suit, including Balthor, who walked forward to stand next to Fargon. Near a third of the shamans from all the clans bowed their heads as well.

  Slar waved a hand toward the bearers. “Then about your business.”

  Radgred pointed them further within the mountain, behind the shaman lodges, but still within reach of daylight.

  With a scowl, Ortax spun on his heel and stalked back to his dwelling.

  Slar looked at Fargon and Balthor, giving them each a nod of respect. They bowed back and joined the workers in directing the placement of their residences. Shaking his head, Slar faced Radgred. “Thank you, my friend. You are as strong an ally within council chambers as you are on the battlefield.”

  Radgred offered a deep and formal bow. “I am always yours, Warchief.”

  “Come,” Slar said with an outstretched arm. “Let us see where we will stay.” He looked into the depths of the caverns under Dragonsclaw. “Let us also explore just how much space we have at our disposal here. This place will be very useful in hiding our plans.”

  Pebble scree clattered down the mountainside as Slar’s feet scrambled along the steep ledge. A scream from some predatory bird gave warning of the danger.

  “You need not tell me,” he whispered back. His claws ached from clamping onto the rocky wall beside him. His boot slipped again, and another batch of stones tumbled downward. Slar scuttled around a boulder, and the ground opened up in front of him.