The dragoon was mocking his faith, but Luca refused to be rankled by the dragoon’s disregard for that which was sacrosanct. After all, chaos was chaos, be it at the hands of a dragoon or a man. For that, Luca was grateful.
“The Shadow be praised,” replied Luca. He kissed his moldavite gemstone.
Demetry smacked his lips, his thirst momentarily quenched. “Cut them free and add them to my menagerie,” ordered Demetry, as he walked off, clearly distracted by the new chorus of voices in his head.
There was a rustling on the ground as the boy’s carrion body began to fight against his bounds. This was followed by a crunch and a stamping of feet. The pig was feasting upon the boy’s cheek. Chaos is never a pretty thing, thought Luca. He shooed the pig aside and cut the two elves free.
CHAPTER
V
THE MOCH OF SALMAEN
Dolum’s head felt as if it had been crushed in a vise. His chest and stomach ached from exertion. He tasted bile, and the acidic smell of vomit struck his nose. He wretched, coughing up brackish water.
He was lying face down against a hard stone surface. Drenched to the bone, his body fruitlessly tried to shiver off the dire chill. He couldn’t remember where he was. He forced his eyes open, fighting off the initial wave of nausea, and focused on his surroundings. At first he saw only bright flashes of light against a sea of darkness. Slowly, he detected the undulating shape of stone all about him. Some blacks were deeper than others. There was a chasm to his left, and a cleft in the ceiling directly overhead. He was in a cave or tunnel. Then he remembered the River Deep and the slithering bodies of goblins snaking through the water.
A shiver ran down his spine.
There was a crackle nearby of kindling taking light.
“Good, good,” hissed a voice. “A fire to cook and a knife to clean.”
“What is it?” asked a second voice.
“Too fatty and tender to be one of them,” murmured another. “No, he won’t do any good at all.”
The reality of the situation finally set in. Dolum had been taken captive by the goblins.
There was suddenly a searing pain in his side. He was being burned by the smoldering end of a stick. “Be gone with you!” cried the dwarf as he tried to scurry away. He backed himself against a rock and began to noticeably shake. This delighted his captors, and one of the goblins leapt atop a rock and pointed at Dolum with excitement, hopping from foot to foot.
“It’s alive!” hissed the goblin. Its hairless head furrowed along crease lines, forming a hideous pinched face.
Another jabbed at him with the stick. Dolum swatted it aside, crying out as the point seared across his palm.
“Squeally little bastard,” grunted one of the goblins as he scurried closer to Dolum. The goblins were swaddled in the remains of lumani uniforms and threadbare red cloaks. They were ornamented with all manner of carved bones. One wore a jaw and broken skull as a crown. Another wore a ribcage as a suit of macabre armor.
Dolum’s mind raced. How had he gotten into this situation? The boat, the water, then something had pulled him under. Then a cold and steady dark. He remembered nothing after that.
In the distance he heard a horrid howl of pain. He tried not to imagine what had caused such a guttural cry.
Dolum’s eyes darted wildly about, taking in his surroundings. He was in a small cavern, hardly big enough to fit the three goblins that were now looking at him with hungry, bloodshot eyes. A small fire burned at the center of the cavern. It sputtered hopelessly as it consumed fragments of ship lumber. Running from the cave were at least half a dozen tunnels, trailing off in all conceivable directions. A chorus of moans and cries drifted from the black holes. He cringed at the thought of how many others were in the same situation.
“Maybe we should take him to the chief,” said one, drawing near. There was a glistening hole where the goblin’s nose had once been. He snuffled about Dolum’s head, his mouth salivating.
Another pushed him aside, pointing a rusted knife in Dolum’s face. “Why, so the bloated bastard can take our kill?” He licked his lips, revealing jagged canines stained yellow with grime. “I haven’t gone a week without eating to go hungry now.”
“Just gut him,” howled the third. “I’m starving.”
Dolum fell back, scrambling until he hit the slimy wall of the cave. This was going to be his end, he realized. He was going to die in some dark and dank cave, eaten by the foulest beasts he had ever seen in his life. He felt helpless. Dolum’s short and pointless life raced through his mind. He began to cower, and he had a sudden fear he might wet himself. That made it all the worse. But it was in this moment of fright and shame that a sudden anger grew in the dwarf.
Why should I die while they live? Why should I accept this fate? The rage that built within him was like the kindling of an inferno. It was very unnatural, considering his normally passive demeanor. He lowered his eyes and waited until the goblin was nearly upon him. The goblin reached for him with gnarled bony fingers; not strong, but weak, emaciated. Dolum lunged. He caught the noseless goblin completely off-guard. His fingers sought out his attacker’s eyes, and he bore deep with his nails. The goblin went limp with pain, howling wretchedly.
The other two goblins dove into the fray. One stabbed Dolum with a jagged stick, sinking it into Dolum’s thigh. The other struck him across the face, knocking Dolum off the noseless goblin. Dolum regained his feet and yanked one of the burning logs from the fire. He sent it crashing like a tomahawk into the face of the nearest goblin, cracking his skull bone crown in two. Embers flared, and in an instant the goblin was alight, his ragged clothes bursting into vibrant flames.
Ignoring his comrade’s plight, the remaining goblin struck Dolum with a right hook across his chin. Dolum fell to the ground in a heap. Dolum watched with blurred vision as the goblin drew an obsidian dagger. With a screech the goblin hacked with the stone blade, but Dolum rolled right, and gripping a rock in his hand, he smashed it hard against his attacker’s head. The goblin’s skull inverted, and with a violent shudder he fell to the ground.
Dolum gained his feet and stood for a moment in awe of what he had done. Two of the goblins were writhing in pain while the third would never move again.
An inquisitive voice drifted down one of the tunnels. “What’s happening in there?”
“It blinded me,” shrieked one of Dolum’s downed foes. “The fat monster blinded me...”
Dolum silenced the goblin with a swift kick to the jaw.
There was a flurry of motion in the tunnel to his right.
In a blur, Dolum acted, gathering up the rusted blade in one hand and a burning log in the other to serve as a torch. He kicked the remaining firewood down the different tunnels. Soon the whole area was choked in smoke and flame. He whispered a quiet prayer, not entirely sure who it was addressed to, and ran into the darkness, hoping desperately that the tunnel he had chosen led to the river and freedom.
• • •
“An unlikely tale,” said the stern-faced lumani who was seated at a trestle table across from Dolum.
Dolum teetered on the point of collapse, caring little if the man believed his story or not. He had already told the commander everything he remembered. How he had managed to escape his vile captors. How he had floated deliriously down the River Deep, blindly hoping that the current would bring him to safety. How a pair of sentries had pulled him from the river like a drowned rat and dragged him up an endless flight of stairs to the lumani outpost in Ravor.
The adrenaline he had felt coursing through his veins earlier was gone. Now, he was simply exhausted, and a teeth-chattering shiver ran through his body with every draft of wind. Dolum hiked the blanket over his head like a hood, longing to rest his weary frame into a down mattress. He doubted the lumani possessed such opulent accommodations.
Dolum’s lack of decorum in the face of questioning only embittered the commander further. The lumani curled his lip scornfully. “Do you believe in fate?”
pressed the commander.
“Sir?” managed Dolum. He was half delirious from the chill and was not sure if he had heard correctly.
“Predestination,” continued the commander. “The belief that you are fated by the gods to your end.”
“I don’t know, sir. It is not a belief often discussed by my people.” Dolum felt awkward and unsure of what response the commander wanted to hear. He looked about the stone turret for a friendly face, but saw nothing but staid-faced lumani staring back. Dolum nervously hunched his shoulders to his ears. He knew predestination was associated with the Weaver, and the Weaver was associated with the Creators. So perhaps he didn’t fully disagree with the concept, but it was not something he ever thought about. “I believe the gods have a hand in the lives of mortals,” he finally stated, hoping it was the right answer.
The commander nodded. “Such a belief is held by my people. The lumani were destined to betray the Wyserum. Priestess Kylick was destined to march for the outer wall. So you must have been destined to live while all others who were captured were destined to die.”
“I don’t believe that is true.”
The commander leaned over the tabletop, not without menace, stretching so close that his face was only a few inches from Dolum’s. “So you say you were merited to escape while my friends were not?”
“No...”
“Then it is fate, for nothing else can explain what has transpired.” The commander looked down on Dolum with contempt. “I cannot contest fate. To what end would fate take you?”
Dolum thought for a moment and chose his words carefully. He knew what he had to do, although he saw little hope in it. “I am to be with my companions.”
“Perhaps you are right,” replied the commander. He waved his hand as if it were all of little matter to him. “But Priestess Kylick’s army has already set forth. They are many hours in advance. What chance would you have in the wilds of Ravor?”
“Only that which the gods grant me,” said Dolum, hoping his words would be what the commander wished to hear. “I need only provisions and I will leave tonight.”
The commander leaned back in his chair and examined the dwarf closely. “If you have the spirit about you, head due south. Take not a break and be fleet-of-foot. By day’s end on the morrow you may catch up with their ranks.”
“Thank you,” said Dolum, not knowing what else to say.
“So may it be that the gods guide you,” said the commander. He made a gesture of blessing upon Dolum.
“So may it be,” said Dolum as he shivered in the night. He wondered now if he shook from chill or apprehension.
• • •
The iron doors of the outpost clanged shut to his rear, causing Dolum to flinch. He found himself alone in the eerie stillness of the night. His shadow was cast long by the torchlight of the ramparts, making him appear for a moment as a giant. Behind him stood the indomitable walls of the lumani outpost. A safe haven, but in many ways also a prison. As much as his craven heart desired it, he didn’t belong there. He stepped into the lightless void of Ravor.
The commander had forewarned Dolum of what to expect. Ravor had once been a plain covered with windswept grass. It was originally occupied by the tribes of Folchechip, worshipers of Paseran. But long ago the Seat of Caper had laid the region to ruin, obliterating the northern tribes who refused to pay tribute. The survivors were enslaved. They worked laboriously, digging miles of tunnels beneath the earth in search of silver and gold. Over time the land became polluted and desolate. The population of Folchechip was decimated in the mines.
It was here that the goblin horde was imprisoned following the War of Sundering. The Zeveron River was dammed, and the floodplains of Ravor became a marshland. Somehow, the goblins managed to survive off the barren landscape. Goblins slunk about the mire of Ravor’s underworld, waiting to sprout from the earth and pull their victims into dungeons of torment. It was here, the commander had insinuated, that Dolum would likely meet his end.
Dolum tightened the straps of his knapsack, trying to ignore the mocking memory. His provisions lay lightly on his back. The quartermaster saw it fit to only give him enough food for two days. It was obvious all believed he would be dead before the night was through. Along with food, they gave him what they called a dirk. The blade looked more like a sword to the dwarf, and he had to thank them for their offhanded courtesy.
Letting out a sigh, Dolum attempted to reassure his already wavering body. It came out weak against the starless night sky. “One foot before the other,” he reminded himself. He set off, striding boldly into the darkness beyond. His feet sunk into the soft earth, and his boots, designed for hiking the hard stone hills about New Halgath, found no hold in the mud slick earth. He soon removed them, and staggered forward barefoot, step after step, until the torchlit ramparts of the fortress became twinkling motes on the horizon. He was truly on his own now; there would be no turning back.
His eyes slowly became accustomed to the wane twilight. The eerie land was mostly level, with large swaths of mudflats intersected by stagnant water. In some places, briers grew taller than his head, creating twisted and knotted walls of impassable thorns. He often had to hack his way through the bramble or take a circuitous route. Sometimes he saw spectral quaffs of swamp gas bloom in the distance, one instant there, gone the next. He decided it was wiser not to look at the ephemeral plumes, lest it truly be the manifestation of some menacing spirit.
Dolum stumbled onward, hardly going more than a dozen paces without tumbling over a tangle of weeds or an unseen rock. Once he fell headfirst into a patch of stinging nettles, lighting up his hands and face with painful welts. The pain enlivened his step. He trudged through mud that rose half to his knees, and sometimes swam when the water was too deep to manage on his feet. The cold became severe, yet Dolum was determined to prove himself. He went on without a whimper or cry of pain. He was the Moch of King Salmaen, second in line to the throne. If this was to be his last stand, he was going to do it proudly and with honor.
A little past midnight, Dolum pulled himself from a mudflat, and lay for a while on a ridge of stone. He had not been there for long when the slurp of feet drawing through mud sounded to his right. He froze stiff, and peered into the darkness beyond, trying to discern form out of the blackness of the night. He was half certain he saw several figures standing only a few dozen paces away.
He steadied his quickening breath. For a moment he shifted his sight to his sheath, drawing forth his dirk. When he looked up, the shapes had dissipated into the still night. Was his mind deceiving him? Exhaustion hung heavy on his body, perhaps he had only imagined the danger.
“The Creators watch over me,” he whispered to himself.
A soft splash to his left caused a lump to form in his throat. It was time to move.
Dolum fell into a quick march, looking with one eye over his shoulder as he went. Several more shadows appeared, popping in and out of vision. There was no doubt about it now. He was being followed. Cursing under his breath, Dolum broke into a full sprint, blindly shoving through a swath of thorny vines. His foot caught awkwardly. He stumbled atop a bed of thorns and almost immediately felt the cold grasp of clawed fingers digging into his neck. Dolum yelled out, slashing with his dirk. The blade met resistance. There was a wicked howl of pain. Rising to his feet, Dolum stabbed with his blade, meeting only air. The creature had slipped back into the night.
“I have a blade!” shouted Dolum. Hoping it would deter his attackers, he pointed the dirk frantically into the night. Hissing laughter resounded from every direction. Darkling shadows beset him on all sides. He hacked blindly and pressed forward. Another shriek. Something pulled at his sleeve, ripping the fabric. He spun at the attacker only to be hit from the other direction. A hand latched onto his knapsack, and he let the straps slip from his shoulders. “Paseran save me!” He felt the words blurt out of his mouth beyond his control.
He tripped over something jagged, there was a snap, and he w
as falling. It was as if the world had opened up and sucked him in. He tried to let out a scream, yet it was held in his throat by the jarring effects of a noose yanking taut around his ankle. Dolum teetered there for a moment and stared about himself in disbelief. There was nothing but intense darkness all around.
He closed his eyes and focused on the senses that remained. He was upside down. High above he heard a scampering of feet. That would be the goblins. So he had fallen in a hole. Probably some sort of snare. He had to cut himself free before the goblins got to him. Which meant he needed his blade. But where had his dirk gone?
He strained his eyes, struggling to find his only hope at salvation. Suddenly, a sparkle flared just below him. It was the light of the crescent moon reflecting off the honed edge of the blade.
He reached for the dirk, but grasped only a handful of air. Too far. He let out his breath and tried again. For an instant his fingertips scraped against the moist earth, but not the blade. It had to be down there somewhere. The steel suddenly flashed again, but this time it wasn’t the light of the moon illuminating the blade.
Dolum cast his gaze to his right and held his breath. A flickering light was floating toward him, borne by a black figure. The figure’s body was draped in layers of heavy cloth that trailed in its wake in shredded braids, like a macabre bridal train. The ghastly form moved with a jerking hobble, taking short scuttling strides as it approached.
Dolum let out a muffled cry and reached for the blade, frantically flailing his arms and free leg; anything to gain an extra inch of reach. It was too late.
The figure kicked the dagger beyond reach and chided the helpless dwarf in a chilling voice. “What use would you have for that old thing?” hissed the shadow. In an instant, Dolum’s shivering body was enveloped in the frigid darkness of the figure’s cloak.
Dolum closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, awaiting the inevitable death blow coming his way. Yet it never came.
Instead, the figure slid her hand across Dolum’s face and cooed softly. “Well, this will never do,” mumbled a grating female voice. She began to fumble with the rope tied around his ankle. “Wasted my hard work like this. Took me a full day, it did, to set up this trap.” She smacked Dolum across the face. “That’ll teach you to mind your own business.”
The Guardian Stone (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 3) Page 5