The Survivors

by Dan Willis

  REPENT LEST THE GODS FORSAKE US.

  “I heard the voice of Reorx himself,” Argus Deephammer declared to the council, raising his voice even louder, with no hesitation or sign that his statement was out of the ordinary.

  “He showed me the sins of Ironroot, the wickedness that breeds here like rats in a sewer. He bade me come here, to you, and deliver this message: Repent of your evils and turn again unto your God, or this great city of Ironroot will be utterly destroyed.”

  “Argus has threatened this council and the people of Ironroot,” Jon Bladehook said. “And surely he has confederates, dwarves who are poised to provide these ‘signs’ of Reorx’s power should we refuse to believe their messenger. They, too, threaten the city and her people.”

  “Ban the street preachers,” Bradok Axeblade said abruptly, his voice cutting through the councillors’ argument. He stood as all the eyes in the room returned to him. “We can pass an ordinance banning proselytizing outside the temple grounds and private homes,” he explained. “That way we get them off the street but they can still speak their piece.”

  “I like that plan,” Much Hollowblade said.

  T R A C Y H I C K M A N

  Presents

  THE ANVIL OF TIME

  The Sellsword

  Cam Banks

  The Survivors

  Dan Willis

  Renegade Wizards

  Lucien Soulban

  (March 2009)

  The Forest King

  Paul B. Thompson

  (June 2009)

  To my best friend. When things

  got dark you were always there to

  hold the light. My wife, Cherstine.

  CHAPTER 1

  Councilman Axeblade

  Bradok Axeblade rose early on the morning of his first day as a member of Ironroot’s city council. If he’d known how short his tenure as a councilman would be, he wouldn’t have spent so much time dressing for the occasion.

  As it was, Bradok bathed and trimmed his beard. A jeweler by profession, Bradok kept his beard short so it would not interfere with his work. Some thought it un-dwarflike, but Bradok paid them no mind. His work brought him wealth, and his wealth brought him position, and that suited Bradok just fine.

  He donned his best white shirt and green pants held in place by suspenders. The fabric was something made by humans that felt like silk but wore better. Bradok could afford silk, of course, but he preferred a little bit of practicality even in the most ostentatious of displays.

  With the skill and precision of someone used to working with small things, he expertly fastened his shirt studs and cufflinks. Each tiny metal device had been wrought in gold with a deeply green emerald for a cap. Bradok fancied they matched his eyes.

  He bound his brown hair back with a silver clip and selected a vest of a particularly vibrant red with gold trim.

  A grating voice cut through Bradok’s thoughts. “Are you going to just stand there, preening in front of the mirror, or are you coming?”

  Bradok glanced at the door to his room where an elegantly dressed woman stood. She had distinctly blue eyes and hair that had once been blonde but had grayed to platinum over the years. Her clothes were the finest Bradok’s money could buy: a long lavender silk dress with a green vest and a necklace of gray pearls separated by gold links that shimmered like smoke against her neck.

  Bradok felt a momentary surge of pride when he saw the necklace. The piece was one of his designs.

  “Don’t worry, mother,” he said, the words sounding as if a heavy weight rested on them. “The session starts promptly at nine, which means that most of the councilors won’t be there till ten.”

  “You should still be on time,” his mother said, her voice softening a bit. “Others might take being late as a sign of weakness.” She smiled and strode across the room. “You can’t afford to appear weak on your first day as a councilman of Ironroot.”

  Bradok fastened his heavy gold watch to a chain that extended through the buttonhole of his vest and dropped the watch into his pocket. His mother picked up the formal long-coat from Bradok’s bed and held it out for him. The coat had a dark green color to it, except where the cuffs and collar revealed a burgundy silk lining.

  “There,” his mother said as Bradok settled the coat over his shoulders and buttoned it. “Now you look like the leader of a city.”

  As he examined himself in the glass, he caught his mother’s face as she brushed a stray piece of lint from the coat. The fire of greed burned in her eyes and, with a pain like a punch in the gut, Bradok realized his newly-exalted position was the cause. It could have been anyone standing in his place in the vest and long-coat, and she’d look the same—so long as that person was a new councilman, about to enter the political worlds of power and privilege. Nothing in that look spoke of a mother’s love for a son.

  “I’m already a respected citizen, Mother,” Bradok said, irritation in his voice.

  “Bah,” she said, needlessly straightening his jacket. “Who are you for people to respect? You’re a tradesman.” She made the word sound like a curse.

  “I’m one of the richest dwarves in Ironroot,” he protested.

  “Wealth may breed envy, Bradok,” she said, “but only power can command respect. Your father—rest his soul—tried so hard to teach you that. It’s a shame that only his death could get through to you.”

  Bradok rolled his eyes, careful not to let his mother see.

  “Let’s go, Mother,” he said, making a show of checking his pocket watch. “We don’t want to be late.”

  Bradok took his mother’s arm, and they left the room. His work allowed him to live in one of the nicest houses in Ironroot, right off the main cavern. It had carpeted floors and paneled walls, with a dozen bedrooms and many rooms for entertaining. In the basement the builder had even tapped into a natural hot spring to make a pond for bathing.

  Despite the luxury, however, Bradok rarely entertained. His friends were too common for his mother’s tastes, and her own friends made him vacillate between the consideration of suicide and homicide.

  They walked down the long hall, past Bradok’s library and the room his mother had been using for the past month. A massive crystal chandelier hung above the grand staircase, casting amber light onto the tiled foyer below. An immaculately-dressed servant opened the door as Bradok led his mother past, and he felt the eternally cool air of Ironroot wash over him.

  His door led into Mattock Street, a quiet lane of rich houses and mostly old money. Neatly-laid cobbles defined the street itself, with sidewalks of broad, flat paving stones on each side. Bright sunlight flooded the street, despite its being more than a mile underground, thanks to a vein of crystal stretching upward from the roof of the cave to the surface above. Crystal lighting like that used to be common in dwarven settlements, but the trick of growing the crystals had been lost in more recent times. That left Mattock Street an oddity in Ironroot, a bright spot with gardens and flowers and green plants in front of every house.

  On the sidewalk, at the base of Bradok’s steps, stood a richly dressed dwarf, basking in the golden light of the morning. He stood a good two inches shorter than Bradok, and he bore the lines of years in his face. His nose was bent, and his hair and beard were gray, but he had a liveliness about him that defied the appearance of age. His clothes were similar to Bradok’s, and he wore a ring on his right hand that carried a diamond the size of a marble. An enormous handlebar mustache hung, seemingly weightless, below the bent nose and it twisted upward as the mouth below it broke into a broad smile.

  “Bradok, my boy,” he said as Bradok descended into the light. “How are you? I see you’ve brought that pretty sister of yours.” The elder dwarf smiled ingratiatingly at Bradok’s mother and i
nclined his head. “Sapphire,” he said.

  Bradok’s mother smiled and inclined her head in return.

  “Much Hollowblade,” Bradok said, extending his arm for the dwarf to clasp. “It’s been too long.”

  “Not that long,” Much said, turning and walking with Bradok and Sapphire. “I think I saw you last at your father’s funeral. That was just a month gone.”

  Bradok grimaced—not at the memory of the funeral, but at the dwarf it honored. His father, Mirshawn Axeblade, had been a great barrel of a dwarf, with coal black hair and the kind of piercing eyes that could stare down anyone. More than once Bradok had been the object of that stare, and the threat of violence that always lurked behind it—violence that Mirshawn’s massive frame and bearlike hands could easily provide.

  Mirshawn had started life as an enforcer for a minor criminal in the city of Ironroot, but his ambitions quickly moved him up the ladder of success. When his employer died mysteriously, Mirshawn took over his operation as naturally as if they were kin. From there, Bradok’s father had gone from simple protection rackets to gaming houses and brothels. Along the way his few competitors met a series of bizarre and untimely ends, clearing the ground for Mirshawn’s advance.

  Finally, when he could raise his stature no more in the under-palaces of the criminal world, he made the move that few petty thugs had made so easily before him: he ran for government office. Petty thug or no, Mirshawn knew how to win elections.

  He bought them.

  In his first election Mirshawn deposed a dwarf who had been on the city council for fifty years. From that time until the day of his death, Bradok’s father had used every scrap of influence, graft, treat, or force he had at his disposal to run the council like his own private piggy bank.

  It had come as quite a shock when Bradok learned of his father’s death. According to the report, Mirshawn and a dozen other dwarves had been crushed in a cave-in down in the lower tunnels. Bradok almost refused to believe the news. Everything about his experience with his father led him to believe that the old man was too wicked and cantankerous to die.

  Die he did, however, leaving Bradok, his only heir, to complete his term on the city council.

  “Don’t worry lad,” Much said, misreading the expression on Bradok’s face. “You’ll do fine. There isn’t much on the docket today, just a trade delegation from some hill dwarf city. I think they want the council to remove the tariff on wool or wood or some such thing. I wasn’t paying attention when the master of schedules brought it up last time.”

  Much offered Sapphire his arm, which she took, and the three of them passed out of Mattock Street and into the main cavern of the city. Main Street led straight along the long axis of Ironroot. At its upper end were the ironbound gates that led to surface world; the lower end exited out into miles of tunnels—some natural, some painstakingly carved—that made up the rest of the city.

  On either side of the street, long poles reached up, almost to the roof of the massive cavern. Lanterns filled with phosphorescent stones were strung between the poles, casting the street in the glow of their slightly blue light.

  Most of Ironroot’s shops and business were there, with easy access to the great gates that led to the surface. Ironroot’s citizens lived in the side passages and the lower tunnels of the Undercity. Smiths and other trades that required open fires were restricted to the Artisans’ Cavern, a specially-constructed series of tunnels designed for maximum ventilation.

  In the center of Main Street stood the central square, a gathering place and garden under the shaft of light cast by Ironroot’s only other crystal vein. The central square looked more like a circle than a square and was lined with shops, taverns, and other places of business. In the center stood a great fountain with a spire in the middle culminating in a statue of Argus Gingerbeard, Ironroot’s founder. Below Argus and all along the spire were figures of beasts that squirted water in all directions and served to pull some of the soot and dirt from the air. That feature alone made the fountain a popular spot for picnickers or people wishing to sit a spell.

  The three walked in silence, and Bradok took the time to note his surroundings. He’d lived in Ironroot all his life and had walked that path daily for the past dozen years. On that morning, with the sunlight radiating over Argus Gingerbeard, Bradok wondered if he’d ever truly looked at the city.

  Beyond the square, on the far wall of the cavern, the Temple of Reorx had been cut into the living stone and worked by master artisans for more than a century. As the stonework and carvings aged, they darkened from bright white to the gray of granite. That gave the temple a blotchy look, as if it had caught some disease that only time could heal. The building itself stood three stories high, its top spire nearly brushing the roof of the upper city. In its heyday, more than a dozen priests and functionaries were housed within the ornamental walls of the temple. Nowadays, however, fewer and fewer dwarves joined the priesthood, reducing the temple to five priests and an acolyte.

  Sapphire’s eye caught a small group of dwarves mounting the temple steps, making their way in for the Third Watch service. “Idiots,” she said with a sneer, venom dripping from every syllable.

  “Not now, Mother,” Bradok said, trying to head off the diatribe he knew would follow that remark.

  “Don’t you dare shush me, boy,” Sapphire said. “I’ll speak my mind when I want to, and I’ll call a fool a fool when I wish.”

  “Just because they pray in the temple doesn’t make them fools, Mother,” Bradok said, a sigh in his voice.

  “Of course it does,” Sapphire snapped. “Believing in a bunch of nebulous gods in an age of industry and enlightenment? No rational person would believe the foolish superstitions those phony priests try to push on us.”

  Like most of the dwarves in Ironroot, Bradok considered himself a secularist. He honored the concept of Reorx, the patron deity of the city, but he wasn’t sure there ever was such a being. The secularist movement had been growing for years, ever since the dwarves began expanding beyond their homeland. Among the cities of the humans and the elves, they had seen wizards work mighty miracles just from studying moldy old books. If they had power as great as that of the priests, the secularists reasoned, then perhaps the priests used a similar kind of magic, conjuring illusions of gods to keep the people under their thumb.

  Bradok wasn’t sure how he felt about the whole issue of religion. His mother, however, had very definite opinions.

  “The council ought to expel them from the city,” she spat.

  Bradok decided not to argue. Sapphire’s voice had a tendency to carry loudly when she got angry.

  They continued past the temple, with Sapphire muttering heatedly under her breath the whole time, and passed into the central square. Only a few people were moving among the shops and peddler carts at that hour of the morning. Wagons of trade goods bumped and clattered over the cobblestones, making their slow and steady way down toward the Artisans’ Cavern. On a corner, by an alley between two buildings, a ragged dwarf stood under a glowpole, holding a sign on which a shaky hand had painted in red: Repent lest the Gods forsake us.

  As the secularists gained power, more and more street preachers and low priests began to appear among the people of Ironroot, calling the citizenry to repentance, prophesying dire things. Mostly they were a nuisance, but occasionally one would lead a petition or rally for redress of some wrong or other that would annoy the city fathers.

  A handcart bearing the unmistakable signs of hill dwarf construction stood before the Brasswork Inn, no doubt where the trade delegation lodged.

  “It’s still early,” Much said, pulling an ornately etched brass watch from his breast pocket. “How’s about a quick breakfast at the Bunch o’ Grapes? I hear the ham’s fresh there—not more than four days old.”

  Bradok hadn’t eaten, but he knew that Sapphire would never approve of a tavern as folksy and comfortable as the Bunch o’ Grapes.

  “No thank you,” he said. “Mother
wants to get to her seat in the gallery before the meeting starts.”

  Sapphire nodded stiffly next to him, though he didn’t know if it came as a result of his thoughtfulness or her imminent public appearance as the mother of Ironroot’s newest councilman.

  “Suit yourself,” Much said with a shrug and a smile. “Fasting is a young man’s game, however.”

  He stopped and took Sapphire’s hand, kissing it gently. “Enjoy the preliminaries, my dear. I’m afraid I must see to my rumbling stomach.”

  Sapphire smiled in return, and Much moved off to the Bunch o’ Grapes. Bradok watched him go for a moment then walked his mother around the gardens of the fountain and, finally, on to City Hall.

  Unlike the temple, City Hall had been built with a facade of wood, giving it the appearance of a surface-dweller’s building. Brass lanterns adorned its face along with wide glass windows. Inside, the vast round audience chamber dominated the main floor. Two levels up, a ring of balconies and private boxes allowed visitors of all social standings to view the proceedings.

  Bradok had arranged for a private box for his mother. Special privileges like that could be counted on to keep her happy.

  The boxes lined the rear of the chamber, facing the podium. Each one had red velvet curtains—in case their occupants chose to remain anonymous—and dark cherrywood doors that separated them from the hallway beyond. Four squat, elegantly carved chairs, with padded seats upholstered in purple occupied the box, which had room for more should they be required.

  Bradok ushered his mother inside the box, not really expecting her to be impressed by the richness of it. He had just held her chair so she could sit when a jovial baritone voice broke over them like a wave.

  “There you are, Bradok.”

  The intrusion of the voice had a dramatic effect on Sapphire. Her face flushed and she quickly stood.

  Bradok turned to find himself face-to-face with the mayor of Ironroot, the honorable Verdel Arbuckle. Arbuckle had been elected mayor of Ironroot a dozen years earlier and had stayed in the job, like all good politicians, through the appropriate application of schmoozing and graft.