A Balance Broken (Dragonsoul Saga)

by Hartke, J. T.

  She laughed again, this time laced with mirth. “You humans are ever hopeful. It must be a result of your short, bright lives.” Varana looked at Dorias. “You have taken many things from this Isle, Ravenhawke. I hope this adventure turns out better than the last.”

  She returned the full force of her gaze on Tallen. For a moment he felt her fear, her pride, and her hope. She reached out a hand and brushed cool fingers against his cheek. “Go. Find your destiny, young man. May it be merciful to you…and to the rest of us.”

  The nights did pass in lonely fear,

  And the days in stabs of terror.

  Men wondered if their choice to fight

  Had been made in grievous error.

  —The Stand of Eron’s Rock, Sixth Verse

  Captain Jaerd Westar stood upon the gatehouse battlement, watching the orcish camp in the distance. The mist of his breath hung in front of his face, before being ripped away by the dry, cool breeze. The enemy swarmed like ants upon their hill, but none made the long, deadly approach up the defile to the ruined pile of stone that was once Jaerd’s command.

  Maester Darve Northtower slapped his hand upon the stone parapet. “They have tried to assault us a dozen times – they have no weapons that can take this fortress. All we have to do is outlast them.” He stroked his long, gray-streaked beard. “We stripped the surrounding land bare before they came. If they did not bring their own food with them, they are doomed.”

  Bran Northtower and his twin Brax stood at their uncle’s shoulder. Bran nodded his head at Darve’s statement. “They are also living in their own crap. That cannot be healthy, even for an orc.”

  The elder dwarf laughed. His dark eyes, as rare among dwarves as the sword over his shoulder, sparkled in the midmorning sun. “Indeed, my nephew.” He nodded at Jaerd. “I fought alongside the Bluecloaks at the siege of Shazrel. That was in the desert.” Darve chuckled. “Dry crap is much easier to deal with than wet crap.”

  Clutching his sides, Bran broke into peals of laughter. Jaerd could not help but join him with a smile. Once the dwarf regained his breath, he wiped a happy tear from his eye. “Have they even made it past the front wall since the good captain here blew it up?”

  His smile fading, Jaerd looked down upon the destruction he had wrought. The foundations stood, unblemished by the explosions. The stones of the wall itself were still stacked in a few places. However, other sections had huge chunks ripped away, as if a giant had taken great bites out of it. The gatehouse lay there, little more than a pile of tumbled stone. Both towers had crumbled completely. The iron gates and portcullis stuck out at random angles.

  The edges of Jaerd’s lips dipped even farther, and his stomach twisted in knots when he focused on the dark crimson remains of hundreds of orcs scattered through the wreckage. Though their bodies were half-frozen, the stench assailed his nostrils, even at this height above the field. It would be the stench of thousands if the orcs didn’t risk their lives to recover their comrades’ bodies. Curling his lips into a snarl, Jaerd pointed at the gatehouse. “They held that pile for a few minutes yesterday. That’s about it. I counted over three hundred that we killed in the process.”

  Bran laughed again, but Darve sensed Jaerd’s mood. Brax, who had remained stoic all morning, shook his head. “Any fortress can be broken.” He turned and walked away, fists clenched at his sides.

  His more cheery brother nudged Jaerd’s ribs. “Don’t mind him. He tends toward dark moods. He’s been that way ever since he was a child.” Bran chuckled and followed Brax’s steps. “A good punch in the arm will solve this one.”

  Jaerd twisted his gaze back to the shattered wall. Darve stood at his shoulder, stout and still. Jaerd was glad for the company, but grateful that the dwarf chose to keep silent.

  “It haunts me, Maester Northtower. The destruction I have dealt.”

  The old dwarf nodded, his eyes fixed upon the same scattered carnage. “Aye, lad. It always haunts the best of us. But you must remember that we would not live today if you had not done what was required.” He clapped Jaerd’s arm. “Always remember those you are here to protect. That’s what I do. That’s what I did when I served here long before you were born. Remember those you love who stand far behind you.” He swung his free hand out at the orc camp. “Would you rather that horde found them?”

  Jaerd laid his hand upon the battlement, the rough texture of granite cool under his fingertips. It offered the same strength he remembered from the obliterated front wall, yet more ancient, more reassuring.

  “Over seven thousand men – Humans, Dwarves, and Elves – can be upon this wall in an instant.” Darve’s voice remained soft, lilting. “Our defensive spread is less than a third of what you had out there, and we are twice as high above them.”

  Squeezing his hand into a fist, Jaerd gritted his teeth. “We will hold.”

  Darve patted his arm again. “We will hold.”

  Tapping the glowglobe twice, Khalem Shadar brightened it to illuminate the hewn stone cavern of the storeroom. Jaerd and Boris both stared in wonder at the wide expanse. A dozen piles of barley grain spread out before them, each three times as tall as a man. A gray cat hopped out from between the piles, curling her tail around Khalem’s legs. He clucked his tongue, and she loped over to Boris, who reached down to scratch her ears.

  “We have two more such rooms full of wheat.” Khalem Shadar tapped the other side of the globe to dim it one shade. “Three more hold hay and other animal fodder.”

  Boris cradled his dimpled chin with one hand. “How do you keep it from spoiling?”

  Khalem pointed to the cat. She leaped upon a barrel and proceeded to clean her paws. “Well, there are our friends down here, who watch out for many things. The rest the mages keep an eye upon.” The Hadoner lifted a sharp, black eyebrow. “Especially Magus Britt. He checks on the food stores regularly, though I am not certain whether he or the pests would consume more.”

  Boris laughed. Jaerd smiled, but his mind concentrated on the food stores. How long will this last seven thousand men?

  “And we have dozens of dairy animals, both goats and a few cows.” Khalem sighed. “They go through fodder fast when we cannot let them graze in the grasslands. Luckily most of the garrison horses were in herd out upon the Norvus plain when the enemy arrived.”

  Boris nodded his head. “Slaughter the dairy animals for food after your next fodder storeroom empties. Keep the rest for the horses we have.” He made a wretched face. “I hope it does not come to this, but begin slaughtering the horses when only one storeroom remains.” The earl held up a warning finger. “Do not slaughter mine.”

  Khalem smiled. “We are months away from that, My Lord. Even the dispatch riders I sent to Hadon could reach the Empire and return with an army of spears to aid us by then.”

  Boris shook the Hadoner’s hand. “Your men will be welcome, but let us hope Gavanor and Daynon can answer before then.”

  Jaerd looked one last time at the barley, before Khalem again dimmed the glowglobe. They walked back up the crate and barrel stacked passageway leading to the stable level. “So you say that water is no problem either.”

  Nodding his head in the yellow light, Khalem pointed to a cross tunnel. “That leads to the cistern. Deep springs and mountain rains feed it. It could sustain this garrison for an elf’s lifetime and is well beyond our enemy’s reach.”

  “I have also seen the meat stores,” Boris said as they walked, the cat trailing not far behind. “Your hunters have been busy. I believe we could eat for a week and not eat the same animal twice.” He narrowed his gaze at Khalem. “What about vegetables? Elves do not live so well as Dwarves and Humans on bread and meat alone.”

  Khalem twirled his fine beard. “I have spoken with Lord Gael at length about this. We have a large store of apples and pears from the orchards along the riverbanks. Magus Britt has seen to it that they are ke
pt in tight spells of preservation.” He smiled. “We also took your advice and began a vegetable garden in terraced steps up the mountain. Our first harvest has been secured by the mages as well.”

  The earl returned the smile. “Something I learned about while visiting your people.”

  The smile on Khalem’s face faded. “I suggested as much to the Earl Farseer two years ago when I arrived.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Earl Brandon did not think it such a logical idea when it came from my mouth.”

  At the entrance, the cat abandoned them, at last convinced they carried no treats. Jaerd trudged along behind the earl, and Khalem kept pace. Only when they passed the mess level did Boris speak. “Aid from Gavanor should arrive within a month, six weeks at latest, depending on how long it takes to muster a sufficient force.”

  Jaerd paused. The earl’s troubled face sent anxious fingers up his back. “Then our stores should be no problem.”

  “No.” Boris wrinkled his eyes in uncertainty. “Stores are not our problem.”

  “Then what is, My Lord?”

  Earl Boris shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Looking to Khalem, who shrugged, Jaerd searched for a change of subject. “It is two days until Midwinter.”

  The earl raised a thick, dark eyebrow. “And?”

  “And we were thinking that it might be an opportune time to rid ourselves of most of the hog stock.” Jaerd gave the quartermaster a significant look.

  “Ah, yes, My Lord Earl.” The Hadoner shifted his sword belt. “Fresh roasted pork for weary defenders to celebrate the turn of the season. The days will at last begin to lengthen again. It will remind the men that all dark times must end.”

  Searching for further arguments, Jaerd lifted his hands. “And it will fill the garrison’s bellies with hot fat to ready them for the cold nights still ahead. Plus the pigs eat a great deal of fodder without anything but their meat to offer in return.”

  Folding his cloak behind his back, the earl came to a stop, his eyes fixed on the entrance to the top level carved out of the mountain. Jaerd had yet to enter the temple dedicated to all five Aspects and the Balance. Boris nodded. “Yes. That sounds good. We will also have a service – not mandatory, but recommended.” He passed his gaze between Jaerd and Khalem. “Then a feast.”

  Jaerd stood behind a group of officers, waiting for Boris to begin. He looked about the temple, his eyes drifting over the five walls. Artisans had carved representations of each of the magical Aspects upon them. Blue-painted, wavy lines marked Water. In the middle of the room stood a tall pedestal, on which rested the split, pearl and onyx circle of the Balance.

  Jaerd gazed at the graceful waves of Water. The Westars keep true to Water, while most folk in Dadric pray to the Balance – most of the entire kingdom, I suppose. I guess we’re just old fashioned.

  Over a hundred noblemen, officers, and sergeants crowded within the pentagonal, carved space. More than a thousand enlisted men of all three races stood upon the shoulders and terraces of Highspur. The wall of the Psoul Aspect, directly across from the entrance, stood at Jaerd’s back. He could almost reach out and touch the silver-painted ankh carved into it.

  Pervading everything, however, was the distant, herb-crusted aroma of roasting pork. More than one stomach growled as they waited for the service to begin.

  Darting his eyes about the room, Jaerd noticed Lord Gael standing close to Khalem Shadar. The elf’s one eye focused on Earl Boris. Lord Marshal Magdon leaned on a cane close by. Tilli Broadoak hovered in another corner, the only dwarf within the temple. Even Dawne, wrapped in her dark cloak, stood just a few yards away.

  I will help her maintain her ruse…for now. I suppose I’m the only one who would care anyway.

  Boris lifted his hands, bowing his head in thanks to those who gathered. “Welcome, friends, on this Midwinter evening. I asked everyone to gather so that we may remember that there is more to life than battle and death. That there are things worth fighting for.” He took a step into the center of the temple. “Our struggle and sacrifice are not in vain, no matter their outcome. No matter our race, we, the men of Highspur—”

  “And women,” piped in Dawne, and Tilli nodded her agreement. Jaerd could not help but smile at his baby sister.

  The earl smiled, nodding his head. “Men and women of Highspur – which reminds me…it is the women in our lives we fight for the most. We stand here to protect our mothers and wives and daughters, our sisters and childhood sweethearts.” He lifted a finger. “In fact, why don’t we—”

  A loud popping noise ripped through the entryway of the temple. Jaerd slapped his hands over his ears, but ran toward the source of the racket. Just as he exited the temple, pushing his way through the startled soldiers, the popping ceased. A great clang rang from the front of the gatehouse, followed by a heavy thump. Gray dust billowed up from the far side of the wall.

  Jaerd understood with horror. “No!”

  He dashed for the gatehouse. Boris followed close on his heels, as did Khalem and Gael. Up the stairs Jaerd charged, pulling Shar’leen from her sheath. The blade offered a moment of reassurance to tamp down the dread that surged through his spine. The clang of steel on steel sounded from above, along with the whoosh of rushing flame. Jaerd took the last three steps in one leap, screaming without words as he charged into the winch room.

  The calm surprised him. The heavy stench of burned hair and flesh assaulted his nose, followed by the acrid, metallic scent of blood, which coated his tongue.

  Darve Northtower knelt, holding the body of his nephew Brax. The young dwarf’s beard had melted away, leaving the red welt of fresh burns and the black of charred skin and hair behind. Tears dripped from the older dwarf’s face. Sergeant Redarm hovered over him, his axe dripping crimson. Bran Northtower, always the happier of the two, lay dead, his empty eyes staring at his brother’s axe imbedded in his skull. A bald, pointy-bearded head lay tucked in the arm of a velvet robed dwarf’s body.

  “I’m sorry, Uncle,” Brax croaked, a spray of blood foaming at the corner of his mouth. “I told him not to…not to get involved with them.” His one good hand gripped Darve’s shoulder. “I swear to you I quit, and never looked at the Cult again.”

  Darve stroked his nephew’s still smoking hair. “Easy, my boy. I believe you. I know you did not betray us. Rest now.” He caressed Brax’s one smooth cheek. “The Halls of Earth will house you alongside our ancestors, until they spit you out to be born again.”

  “I…I…” Brax’s breath rattled one last time, and his uncle closed his eyes.

  Boris grabbed Darve’s shoulder. “By the Fires, man, what happened?”

  The dwarf knelt there, his eyes focused on his dead nephew. “Again a dwarf is a traitor. This time back to the powers we first betrayed.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yrik and Bran relieved Brax and Sergeant Redarm on guard in here. Brax returned to tell his brother something, I know not what, that was when the racket up here began.” Darve rose, gently releasing his hold on Brax. “Marrax and I rushed in to find the twins battling each other. Brax won. Then Yrik burned him. My sergeant took care of that traitor quite deftly you can see.” He shook his head, eyes filled with grief. “But not before he cut through the master chain and hinge pins on the front gate.”

  Sergeant Redarm knelt down beside the robed body. He picked up a long, crystal rod. “He used this.”

  Darve nodded, his face deep in a frown. “Yes. It is a charged magical tool for just such a purpose. It is very rare, even among my people.”

  Earl Boris gritted his teeth. “You brought traitors among us! From within your own house!”

  Sadly shaking his head, the old dwarf dropped to his knees. Sorrow hung heavy on his face. He lifted his hands and opened his mouth to speak.

  An ominous horn blast echoing up the defile cut off his words.

  Lord Gael dashed to an
arrow slit and scanned the distance. “They come! It looks like they have a ram.”

  Leaving Darve on his knees, Earl Boris dashed over beside Gael. “Is it large enough to break the portcullis and inner gate?”

  The elf nodded. “The gate hinges inward into the courtyard. Their ram looks stout enough.” He searched a moment longer. “The entire horde must be on the move this time. They bring taller ladders as well.”

  With a sudden fierce scowl upon his face, Darve Northtower rose to his feet. He looked to the Lord Marshal Magdon, who had hobbled up the last step as the horn sounded. “Then it is time to implement our plan.”

  Boris looked confused. “What plan is that?” the earl asked.

  The Lord Marshal placed one hand gently on the earl’s shoulder. “A plan to get you out.”

  Before Boris could protest, Magus Joslyn Britt trotted up the stairs, huffing. Brawny stalked beside him, as he had since Sergeant Hall had not returned. “Yes, Boris,” the mage said between gasps for breath. “You must listen to us. The outer gate lies flat upon the ground below us. Highspur has fallen; it is just a matter of time.”

  A frown clouded Boris’ features. “Gentlemen, I do not know exactly what it is you have planned here, but I will not flee just when things begin to look dark.”

  Magus Britt barked a harsh laugh, and Jaerd was shocked to hear the hopelessness in his voice. “Begin to look dark?”

  Marshal Magdon held up a placating hand. “Someone has to get out and get our last messages back to the king. You are the best one to carry those messages.”

  The earl raised a black eyebrow. “Why would you say that?”

  Magus Britt stomped forward, his own bushy, gray brows drawn down in anger. “Blast it, Boris! You know damn well why. Bastard or no, you are Arathan’s only son. You are the only one he might listen to through all the murk of his council!”

  Boris opened his mouth to protest, but that only seemed to infuriate the Battlemage. “You have been hiding from this your entire life. Arathan is practically on his deathbed, and you should not die up here. You would leave our entire kingdom’s future at risk to prove a point of honor.”