by Alon Shalev
Those still mounted continued, following General Shiftan’s red armor, his sword now high above his head, his banner man behind him. Then the General’s mount jerked into the air and collapsed to the ground, a line of bright scarlet blood oozing out of its neck from the trip wire that had been strung across the path. The horse whinnied from pain and then lay still. Shiftan rolled away and sprung to his feet. Ahad was impressed.
Arrows were directed now at the fallen General, and his soldiers immediately surrounded him. One soldier jumped from his horse, and the General took the offered reins.
“Form up,” he cried, spittle and blood gathering at the sides of his mouth. “We ride slowly. Keep watch. On my command, we charge, and the gods’ vengeance be upon them.”
Ahad moved into line, his breathing heavy with anticipation, and the cavalry moved at a slow gallop.
As the steep rock receded on either side, Ahad saw the wagons, halted as instructed before entering the narrow mountain passes. A strong military escort accompanied them, but these soldiers looked on helplessly as pitch-laden arrows rained down from all sides and were lit by accompanying burning arrows.
The dwarves and their allies did not seem intent on fighting the disciplined soldiers, only on destroying the supplies. The officer in charge of the convoy sent two forays into the thick forest from where the arrows came, but these cavalry lines were cut down with deadly accuracy by archers firing from high up in the trees.
One sixer succeeded in entering the forest, holding their shields together, but never returned. The sounds of combat echoed against the mountainside. Ahad glanced at the General, seeing his indecision.
“From Geenauld to the end, you ride to the wagons and save the supplies,” Shiftan called. “The rest will charge with me into the forest. If you see archers in the trees, raise your shields. Hit the trees with your horses.
“On my mark,” Shiftan raised his sword, but as he did, fire snaked across the entire path from both edges. A thick, black smoke filled the sky as flames leapt up.
The general’s curses were as angry as his soldiers’ as his horse reared.
The Crown Prince slapped Ahad’s arm with the side of his sword and pointed up to a mountain peak.
“Recognize?” he called.
Ahad saw a tall, thin man dressed all in black, his spiky, black hair distinct in the sky. “Go home, Shiftan,” he cried. “These mountains belong to the free dwarves. Go home ‘fore the winter feeds you to the crows, if I don’t finish you first.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Ahad stared up at Shayth. He felt rage grow inside him and pulled his horse round. He backtracked and rode up the first gorge he could find. He could sense others behind him–he guessed Phineus, and therefore Ruel and Crefen.
General Shiftan had barked something, but Ahad ignored it. When they reached a dead end, he jumped from his horse and began scrambling up the rocks and scree.
“Ahad,” Phineus shouted, his voice sharp.
Ahad stopped, ready to snap back at his sovereign not to interfere, but Phineus spoke first, his voice calm and authoritative.
“Curb your emotions. Remember your training.”
Ahad heard the words and took a deep breath. He nodded and turned again to ascend the mountainside. This time, his footing was measured and surer. He was a Master Assassin and had trained in the academy. He admitted to himself that his friend might just have saved his life.
He waited near the top to catch his breath and for his companions to join him.
“Ruel guards the horses,” Phineus whispered when he had joined Ahad.
Crefen was about twenty yards to their left and threw a pebble that hit Ahad’s shoulder. The boy pointed to his left and tried to signal a number, but his thick battle gloves made it difficult to decipher. There were possibly ten men above them.
Phineus leaned in. “I’m not sure these are great odds,” he said. “Even if most are dwarves, we have the disadvantage.”
Ahad nodded. He drew out a long throwing knife. He would take one shot, but Phineus put his hand on Ahad’s arm.
“Do you have a plan?”
Ahad hesitated. “Let me throw, and we can run back to the horses. One throw. You can start back. If I cannot join you, I’ll hide. I know how to disappear.”
Phineus frowned. “We’ll be near,” he said and began to retreat.
Ahad waited several minutes and then crawled to see above the rock face, where he found mainly dwarves and a few men and elves retreating, chortling at their victory. They had destroyed most of the supplies. Mission accomplished.
Ahad felt the anger. Was that Shayth laughing, mocking the memory of his father? Mocking Shiftan, his father’s best friend? He began to run silently behind the disappearing group, tracking them through a narrow gorge and then suddenly on flat, open ground, totally exposed. Facing him stood a dozen dwarves, short, but broad and well armed. Each held an axe and shield, except for two who had nocked bows aimed at him.
Next to them was a well-built elf holding a sword and long knife. His face was hard, but puzzled. Shayth stood next to him, bow in one hand, arrow in the other.
“Are you trying to defect, man, or do you just have a suicide wish?” Shayth asked.
“I’ve come for you, Shayth,” Ahad replied.
A voice from behind Ahad called out: “All clear. No one else follows.”
“Either you are very stupid or. . .” the elf paused in his mockery of Ahad. “. . . Or very, very stupid.”
The dwarves laughed, but Shayth raised his hand. “You look familiar. Name yourself.”
Ahad actually did feel stupid. All this training, and he had acted like a petulant boy. He lowered his eyes, and then slowly turned and began to walk back the way he had come from. Surprisingly, they allowed him. He did not look back, suspecting that if he did, they might change their minds.
He was in the narrow rock corridor and felt confused.
“Stop,” a voice said from behind. Shayth sounded authoritative, but not insistent.
He stopped, but did not turn.
“Face me,” Shayth said.
Ahad did.
“Who are you?” Shayth asked for a second time, but now with wonder in his voice.
“Do you know him?” the elf asked when Ahad did not answer.
Shayth began to approach.
“Careful,” the elf warned. “He may not be as dumb as he seems.”
There were just the two of them, it seemed.
“I know you,” Shayth whispered, keeping his bow and arrow taut. “You did come for me, didn’t you? You’re from the palace? An assassin. But why one so young and green?”
“Mebbe the Emperor still underestimates yeh, Shayth,” a burly dwarf, now standing next to the elf, said.
Shayth ignored Ballendir and spoke again to Ahad, his voice quiet, but his dark coal eyes blazing. “You came to avenge him?”
Ahad realized he was holding his breath. This is not how it should be. He had imagined their confrontation a thousand times, and no scenario came even close to this.
Shayth’s voice turned to ice. “There is nothing to avenge, Ahad. Your father betrayed me after he pledged to protect me. He poisoned my friend to capture the Wycaan, and let her die while he held the antidote. He was a bad man, Ahad–a tool of a violent Emperor, my uncle.”
“Who is this ta yeh?” Ballendir asked, but Shayth continued.
“I thought rotten seed passed through a family. That’s why I became what I became–a killing machine, feared throughout the land and hated by all. But it’s not true, Ahad–for either of us.”
“You killed my father–stabbed him in the back when he loved you.”
“He never loved me, Ahad. He loved the man who conceived me, and he loved what he defined as duty. He murdered tens of thousands. Men, women, children, humans, elves, dwarves; he didn’t care. And my sword pierced his chest as we fought, not his back. I looked him in the eye and fought him.”
“You lie,” Ahad
said, feeling his chest constrict. “He. . .” But he didn’t continue.
“I hated him, Ahad–hated him after I had loved him as my own father. But I learned that a man is measured by his actions, his values. Go back to your books and studies. Become a beacon of learning in these dark times. You don’t have to follow in his footsteps.”
“I swore to avenge him. . .” Ahad heard the doubt in his own voice. “I have trained to fight, all for this day, this moment.”
“If you fight me, there’ll be no way back. I will hurt you. If you are a real threat, I will kill you. I see the badge you wear and won’t take your attack lightly. Go back to Shiftan and talk to him. He was your father’s best friend after mine was murdered. I hear Shiftan is a wise man, as well as a worthy general. Seek the truth. If you come again to fight, I shall kill you, albeit with a heavy heart.
“For I have changed, Ahad, and so can you.”
Ahad drew his sword. “You lie. You murdered my father, and now you dishonor his name. Fight me if you call yourself a man.”
Ahad took a step forward, only to fall into darkness with a blow to the back of his head.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Seanchai and Sellia set off with Umnesilk after a hot breakfast. They scrambled to keep up, having left their horses to rest at the First Boar’s advice.
“We go up,” he said while they ate. “No place for horses. You return, they fresh, ready to run many miles.”
“How long will it take to reach the council?” Sellia asked.
“We go your pace or mine?” the pictorian asked and laughed in a throaty way that made both elves smile.
“We can run,” Seanchai said. “Not as long as you, but we can run.”
The pictorian grunted. “We see. Ready now?”
They rose and thanked Onywei for the meal. Umnesilk signaled with his head for them to go ahead. When Seanchai peeked back, he saw the giant pictorian and his mate touching foreheads and holding each other.
“Turn around,” Sellia snapped. “They don’t want an audience.”
He frowned at her. “You okay?”
“Sure,” she said curtly. “I don’t like the cold, and I’m not sure we’re making the best use of our time.”
He stared at her and a thought occurred. “Do you want children, Sellia? Did that conversation upset you? Do you want a family?”
“You heard my answer last night. Right now, I just want to win a war and live among elves, free elves.”
“You want to be among our own kind,” Seanchai replied, “back in the forests where our kind belong.”
Sellia tightened the strap on her bag and readjusted her bow. “I made my decision. Let’s go,” she said, and set off briskly.
Umnesilk came running up to them, his gait thumping the ground. “Good to makes haste,” he said, “but go wrong way.”
The temperature soon dropped further, and the air thinned. Seanchai eventually called for a rest and was glad to see he wasn’t the only one sweating and breathing heavily. They drank and stared at the path before them.
“The snow line,” Seanchai said. “How long do we have, Umnesilk?”
“Tomorrow we arrive, when sun is highest. Another go on to tell of us coming. No good to surprise pictorians. Rip off heads if surprised.”
“How will they receive us?” Sellia asked.
“Not sure,” Umnesilk replied. “Maybe rip off heads.”
“But we have the First Boar with us,” Seanchai said.
“First Boar for fighting. Council for smart?”
“I think you’re pretty smart,” Seanchai replied. “If General Tarlach trusted you, then so do I.”
Both Sellia and Umnesilk stared at him.
“That’s kind of weird,” Sellia said. “Shouldn’t you be hating him?”
“Can hate and admire,” Umnesilk said. “Best if so, know enemy.”
“He killed your mate,” Sellia said to Seanchai. “He murdered Ilana.”
Umnesilk looked from one to the other.
“Not now,” Seanchai snapped and jumped abruptly to his feet. “Let’s run.”
“I’m sorry,” Sellia said in his wake. She wasn’t sure if he heard her.
“Wycaan!” Umnesilk shouted, and Sellia glanced up, fearing an avalanche. “Wrong way. Go this way.”
That night, they slept in a cave. There was wood piled in a corner, ready for a fire. This was a way station, it seemed, for there was also water and a shovel.
They ate dried meats and hard root vegetables they had packed earlier. Umnesilk told them that the food here was best left for an emergency.
They lit a small fire, wrapped themselves in furs and sat in the cave by the fire, staring into the flames.
“Umnesilk? Do your people tell stories?” Sellia asked.
The great pictorian nodded. “Stories are beautiful and long. Many battles and blood. In tongue of Odessiya, not sound good like in our language.”
“Share one with us anyway,” she said. “We need to learn more about each other’s past if we’re to build a future together.”
Umnesilk nodded. “Female pictorians always smarter. Elves, too?”
“Of course,” Sellia replied.
Umnesilk laughed and nudged Seanchai playfully with his boot. Seanchai almost toppled over.
“I’m smart enough not to respond,” the elf said, and this only made Umnesilk laugh more.
After a while, he brought out a flask. “You have?” he asked.
Seanchai reached into his pack and brought out the gift he had received from Thorminsk, the young dwarf craftsman from Clan Dan Zu’Ulster. He sighed as he passed it to Umnesilk, and the pictorian admired the intricate handiwork. Then he looked up at Seanchai.
“Is very beautiful. A gift? Why sad then?”
“It was a gift, yes–from a young dwarf. But he’ll make no more.”
“Dead?”
“Yes. You killed him.”
Umnesilk frowned, clearly thinking back. “I remember. When we chase to swamp, he not dwarf warrior, but he try to fight.”
“Yes,” Seanchai replied, and his voice wavered.
Umnesilk filled the flask and gave it to Seanchai. “We drink to dwarf’s memory. We honor him now.”
Seanchai took a sip and shuddered. Dwarf draft was strong, but this was far more intense. He offered it to Sellia, who declined.
“You gave me a pretty good idea of how it tastes,” she said.
“No, you drink,” Umnesilk insisted. “We honor Seanchai’s friend.”
They both stared at him, but he was absolutely serious. Sellia took the flask and drank.
Umnesilk spoke. “Pictorian and dwarf should not fight. When gods made world, made two brothers. One big and strong. He very brave and fought creatures and hunted. Other son small and slow. He angry not to be strong like brother. No good. They fight with words; they fight with fists. No good.
“Mother take small son to gods, who send him on journey under earth. Here he learn to find great stones: some of beauty, others strong for build, and still others for magic. Small brother could walk underground because small. He use magic and learn to make beautiful flasks, and weapons, and jewelry. Become famous, become rich.
“Older brother fight, make enemies. One day, mighty king come to fight and challenge older brother to Kuntai, fight by blows. King stronger than brother, even though brother eight feet tall. King bigger, wider, stronger. King say if win, he take mountains and family be slaves.
“Small son come to see brother. Give him thin vest of many, many very small metals. Older brother say it beautiful but not help. Younger son say: we are different. You fight, and I create. We must trust. I trust you tomorrow to win Kuntai. You trust me with metals.
“Older brother put on under shirt, feel light and not strong. Meet king and king punch first. Punch so loud, echo through mountains and valley. Older brother stagger back from force, but not hurt. Punch king hard, and king fall but rise. Trade many punches. King very strong, but not
hurt older brother.
“Brother win victory for family and mountain. Thank younger brother for magic shirt. Then two brother live as family: one under earth, other on mountain. One hunt and fight, other mine stone and create beauty. Both different, but brothers forever.”
He stopped and drank from his flask. “You see, Wycaan. Pictorian fight dwarf, not good. Understand?”
“I do,” Seanchai replied. “Thank you. I want to show you something. This was made by the same dwarf.”
He stood up and let his blanket fall to the ground. Then he unfastened his shirt and removed it. Underneath, shining in the light of the fire, was the King’s Mail, small and intricate as Umnesilk has described.
“This was the greatest achievement of Thorminsk, artisan of Clan Dan Zu’Ulster, his finest work, and his last.”
Umnesilk stared at it and nodded. He removed a glove and his great hand moved to touch it and look closer. “Odessiya poorer for loss of dwarf. I sorry for his death.” Then he picked up his flask again. “I give honor to fallen foe, shame he ever became my enemy.”
Seanchai took a swig of his own flask and said, “Tomorrow, at the council, I need you to say that again. For this is why I have come: to ask the pictorians to come to the aid of the dwarf nation.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The following day, Umnesilk led the elves higher into the mountains. After an hour or so, they were walking on ice. Seanchai found it particularly difficult and slipped a number of times.
“How much longer?” he asked Umnesilk, exasperated.
“Soon,” the pictorian replied, and then, a few minutes later: “Stop here and wait.”
They stood, trying to spot whatever Umnesilk was looking for. He seemed to sniff the air. After a while, they saw two figures in the distance, gliding on the packed snow. As they came closer, Seanchai could see that they were sliding down the mountain on flat, tapered pieces of wood.
They were much smaller than Umnesilk, and Seanchai thought it was because they were female until they drew up next to him. They were pictorye.