by Doug Niles
“If not for Duck Bigdwarf, he would have killed me as well,” Tarn said, with a pang of grief for the courageous gully dwarf.
“You one hot fighter! You knock Slickblade’s sword down!” Regal declared, looking at Tarn with eyes wide as saucers.
Tarn pushed his way forward, using his sword to cleave the last of the Daergar crew members. The bodies were unceremoniously dumped over the side. Tarn assigned two gully dwarves to each rowing bench, knowing that they had to put to sea swiftly.
At the same time, a roar of alarm went up.
Hybardin Hold
Chapter Nineteen
The lift rattled to a stop and the cage doors opened upon another of Hybardin’s levels. Before the passengers could disembark, however, Baker Whitegranite slumped onto a bench and spoke weakly.
“Wait just a minute, now.” Baker held up his hand. The band of Hylar who served as his bodyguard stood at attention while the thane hissed through clenched teeth and bent double, his hands clasped over his stomach. “It won’t be long—just until the worst of the pain passes.”
“Are you wounded, my lord?” asked Capper Whetstone in real concern.
“No. It’s just a pain in the belly. All too familiar, I’m afraid. Just give me a minute and I’ll be fine.” He tried to smile into the blurred, concerned faces, but the agony was too acute.
For all his reassuring words, it was all Baker could do to keep from falling down in utter collapse. The fire in his stomach had afflicted him with increasing frequency as the defense of embattled Hybardin had progressed.
He tried to think, to divert his mind from the physical pain, but every memory seemed instead only to enhance his suffering. He thought of Axel Slateshoulders, laid low by the news of his daughter’s fate, and Baker couldn’t help but wince at his own culpability. It had been he who had assigned her to the post of ultimate danger, he who had been unable to provide her with the reinforcements and recruits that she had so desperately needed.
And what of his son? Was he on the lake, in the midst of the army of dark dwarves? The more Baker thought about it, the more convinced he became that Tarn, like Belicia and so many others, must be dead. The thought grew into a wave of melancholy so powerful that it seemed to almost overwhelm him.
The thane of the Hylar pinched his eyes shut, fighting a most undwarven onslaught of tears. Finally he gave in, holdng his head in his hands and sobbing. All these deaths. So much of Hybardin destroyed—and destroyed by an enemy they couldn’t even fathom! It was too much tragedy for one dwarf to bear. After his body was seemingly drained of all tears, he felt no better. His spirit was empty, and everything about the future seemed hopeless. How could any leader, any people, be expected to cope with such a relentless and deadly onslaught?
The dark dwarf attack had been treacherous and violent, but also predictable in light of the long, bloody history of Thorbardin. Baker reminded himself that he had tried to plan for it.
The Chaos horde was something that seemed impossible to defeat, or even to resist effectively. Instead, the Hylar could only flee or die. The parts of the city that had fallen to the creatures of shadow and destruction had been completely destroyed.
The only bright spot had been the diversionary tactic that had pitted the large attack force of Klar against the soldiers of Chaos. But Baker was under no illusions. This was not a tactic they could repeat with any regularity, nor did it gain them any ground against the shadowy power that had claimed so much of the Hylar city.
Whole blocks of buildings were gone, gardens wilted, waters fouled. They were somewhere around the middle of the Life-Tree now, having stopped for a look and a report at each of the lift stations on the way down. Snatching at hope, he tried to formulate some kind of plan. At least his stomach pain had eased somewhat.
“All right. I think I can move again.” With an effort he raised his head from his hands, embarrassed by his display of weakness. “Let’s go.”
“This is Level Ten, my lord. Our first reports were that it has not yet been attacked,” explained Capper Whetstone, overseer of the thane’s ten personal bodyguards. Now they formed two ranks, one to each side of the thane, while Capper himself walked at Baker’s side.
The thane looked around, not really seeing much. The onetime blacksmith had long since noted his leader’s visual problems. Now he described their surroundings without being prompted. “No damage visible so far, Sire. There’s a couple of bridges linking the roads to the Kings Walls, both intact.”
“Good.” Baker tried to detect some cause for optimism in the report, but his despair was too great to be eased by this news or any other.
“Look out!” shouted one of the bodyguards.
The thane whirled to see a dark shape rearing above another of the Hylar warriors. The dwarf moaned in terror as the tendrils of darkness slammed together—and then he was gone, in a shocking instant. Empty armor tumbled to the floor like a useless shell.
Capper Whetstone lunged and swung his axe with crushing force, but the weapon passed right through the vaporous apparition. The captain of the guard stumbled back an instant before a lashing limb of darkness could reach him.
And then the shadow was coming straight at Baker. The thane had drawn his sword—he didn’t remember when—and he stabbed ahead blindly, striking into the center of the shade and feeling the darkness part before the edge of his blade. He cut again, feeling a shivering sensation in the air around him.
The shadow creature was gone.
“My lord, are you all right?” asked one of his men.
Baker nodded.
“How did you do that?” asked Capper. “I struck the thing square to no effect at all!”
“It was this sword,” Baker said, looking at the short sword he held in his hand, “this sword from the wall of my Atrium, blessed by Reorx in the old days of Thorbardin like all the rest of those weapons.” He was struck by an inspiration. “There’s more of them there, all of them likewise blessed and enchanted. Come, we’ll take them and use them in this fight!”
They quickly made their way to the Thane’s Atrium. Soon they had removed all of the treasured artifacts from the wall except for a huge, long-hafted axe that was simply too heavy to carry. His bodyguards and a number of other Hylar warriors were thus armed with short and broadswords, axes and hammers great and small. If Baker’s assumption proved correct, these weapons might cause some harm to the lightless attackers.
By the time the inspection of the next few levels was completed, Baker’s “gut fire” had settled into a dull ache, a discomfort he was able to conceal as he passed the hopeful throngs of his people who had gathered on word of the thane’s arrival. They were strangely silent, these worried dwarves, but Baker could sense the trust in their shining eyes. He silently vowed to prove himself worthy of his role as their leader.
Finally the lift rumbled into Level Five, the lowest station still controlled by the Hylar. Baker was heartened to see that the forges were still burning, encouraged to hear the hammering of smiths and the shouts of foremen as the dwarves worked hard in defense of their city.
But his mood darkened quickly as he remembered that it was not far below here, on the broad marketplace of Level Two, that Belicia and her valiant company had made their last stand.
“My Lord Thane,” declared a young but battle-scarred Hylar, his head and one arm wrapped in bandages, “I was with the company in the plaza, below. I was told that I should give you a full report.”
“Yes. Please, sit down.” Baker gestured to one of the street-side benches, and the two dwarves sank together onto its stone surface. “What’s your name? Can you tell me what happened down there when the Chaos horde attacked?”
“Thornwhistle, my lord—Farran Thornwhistle is my name. At first we were holding the bastards, lord. Captain Slateshoulders’s plan was a good one. We beat back every one of the Daergar attacks—and the Theiwar’s when they came ashore a few hours later. I can’t say how many we killed, but it was hundreds, maybe
more than a thousand.”
Baker encouraged him to continue, the thane trying without success to imagine the bloody horrors that this young Hylar had survived.
“I had been wounded once or twice, lord like all the fighters. But still we held! I heard the songs of our ancestors, felt the drums pounding in triumph, and knew that the dark dwarves would rue the day that they attacked us. We bled, but we slew many of them, and our shield wall held!”
Farran took a deep breath, and suddenly his eyes were wild, haunted with memories. “And then—” Farran Thorn-whistle’s voice caught, and he shook his head in disbelief. “It was like the sea caught fire. It spread to the bedrock. I saw the south dockside just melt away, running like sludge from heat. My lord, I wouldn’t even expect you to believe me—but the rock was melting, I swear it!”
“Did it seem as though the fire was aiding the dark dwarves, perhaps controlled by Theiwar magic-users?” This was one of his greatest fears.
Thornwhistle scowled, thinking deeply. “No, lord. I don’t think so. I saw more than a few of their boats go down. Some were melted, some capsized by the waves. And even on shore, the dark ones were running for their lives—especially those fleeing that fire dragon and the black one who rode it.”
Baker nodded, having heard many reports of this menacing but mysterious being. “What did he do? Was he the leader?”
“Aye, lord. He seemed to summon others, sending them against both Daergar and our own Hylar!”
“What ‘others’? What kind of troops did you see?”
“They were like shadows, lord, but shadows with an insatiable hunger and a lethal touch. A whole rank of my comrades fell dead, falling like empty sacks of flesh, drained into nothingness by a touch from these beasts. I could see their armor there, their weapons—but by Reorx, they were gone! And I don’t even remember who they were! Men and women I had trained with for weeks, had shared the battle line with all day!”
Thornwhistle lowered his head into his hands and sobbed. Awkwardly Baker patted him on the shoulder, though his own grief felt every bit as heavy.
“Yours is confirmation of other experiences, even my own.”
“Captain Slateshoulders rallied us. We tried to stand. By Reorx, her courage was the stuff of song and legend—and we failed her!”
“No. There is no failure in fleeing from these creatures, my young warrior. But tell me of your captain, Belicia Felixia Slateshoulders. Did you see her fall?”
“No. The shadows were too thick.” Wretched and miserable, Farran looked at his thane with an expression of utter despair. “They came up the stairs and through the rock. Everyone was running for their lives. I was afraid, my lord—I was a rank coward, and I deserve to be punished!”
“We’re all afraid, son. There’s no shame in that. Were you still down below when the bottom of the Life-Tree caved in?”
“No. We were climbing by then, fighting on the stairs leading up to Level Three. But those shadows were after us, coming from everywhere!”
“You get some rest now. And eat something.” Baker was thoughtful, trying to seize on a tiny ray of hope that he had discerned in these reports. He felt profound admiration for this young warrior and deep pity for the dwarves who had faced this ungodly threat. “You’ll have to fight again, Reorx knows, but not before you have a chance to recover.”
The thane left the young warrior with several matrons who promised to look after him. Baker’s step was strangely buoyant, however, as he returned to the lift station. If truth be told, he felt better, more hopeful, than he had since the Chaos horde had first attacked.
He found Axel at the station and he embraced his astonished friend firmly, fiercely holding him against his chest.
“Is there news? Did you hear how Belicia fell?” asked the grieving veteran.
“No news, except this: we still remember her, don’t we? What she looked like? Who she was?”
“Aye. It’s all we have now,” Axel declared bitterly.
“No it isn’t,” Baker insisted. “It dawned on me while I was talking to a young survivor just now. The story is always the same. Those who fall to the Chaos creatures are not only killed, but their memories are blotted out from all who remain as if they never existed.”
“I know that!” snapped Axel.
“And you just confirmed it—you and I both—even that young warrior! We all remember Belicia vividly, don’t we?”
“Aye.” Axel’s eyes flashed, suddenly sharing the insight that had uplifted Baker.
“Exactly! And if we remember her, then there’s a very good chance that she’s still alive!”
Sailors on the Ocean Black
Chapter Twenty
“Have any of you ever been on a boat before?” Tarn asked, trying to keep his tone casual as the vessel took a sudden lurch to starboard.
“First time, by guff!” Regal boasted, with a chorus of assent from the gully dwarves who were shifting and bickering on the rowing benches. Somehow, three or four of them—all on the portside posts—had managed to get their oars wet and move the boat away from the dock. Now, with a clatter of lumber, the boat was moving with surprising speed.
“And by the way,” Tarn added, bracing himself and raising his voice over the din of a dozen arguments. “I think you’re supposed to row on both sides at the same time!”
The craft twisted back to port as the starboard oarsmen all dipped their boards into the water and pushed with something approaching unison.
“What fun that? We just go straight then,” groused Regal.
Somehow, despite the best efforts of the gully dwarves, the boat continued to move away from the dock. Water heaved all around them, and the slender vessel rocked back and forth, but the Aghar seemed utterly unperturbed by the tumult. Tarn tried to take some inspiration from them, though he still clutched the tiller for security.
The half-breed looked to shore and saw a boat full of Daergar warriors. The deadly assassin called Slickblade, his eyes expressionless in the slit of his black mask, stood rigidly in the bow as the pursuing craft pulled away from shore. The bow was aimed straight toward the Aghar pirates, oars striking the water in precise cadence and churning white waves before the sharp prow.
“Row! Fast!” he urged.
A splashing froth rose along the port side, and their boat wheeled grandly to starboard. The valiant gully dwarves frowned, and their oars skipped over the water as their concentration was interrupted. Tarn, in the stern, tried to shout instructions and encouragement, which mainly had the effect of causing his voice to grow exceedingly hoarse.
The other boat drew closer, and Tarn saw that Slickblade had armed himself with a long spear. The assassin seemed focused on Tarn. Fueled by memories of the dead Rocco and Duck, Tarn felt more than ready to meet that challenge.
“Come on!” he murmured.
The Daergar craft drove closer, aiming to ram the stern of the Aghar craft.
“Turn!” cried Tarn, adding his weight to the tiller. The boat heeled slightly, lengthening the distance from the enemy, but still their pursuers dogged their heels.
A spear soared at them, and Tarn knocked the weapon aside just before the two boats collided. Tarn straddled two benches, holding his balance in the lurching watercraft. Keeping his weight low, he lunged toward the gunwale, thrusting his sword and striking a solid blow against Slickblade’s spear. The assassin hurled his weapon suddenly, but the rocking boat made his aim go wide. The Daergar boat pitched again as Slickblade snatched up another spear.
“You’ll sink us both! You’re mad!” one of the dark dwarf rowers shrieked, casting a wide-eyed glance over his shoulder.
That gave Tarn an idea. If he could tip the dark dwarves’ boat, every armor-clad warrior would sink straight to the bottom of the lake. The half-breed lunged, landing on the edge of the enemy boat, which tilted sickeningly under his weight.
Both hulls rocked wildly. The gully dwarves whooped and grinned while the panic-stricken Daergar rowers tried to pu
ll away. Tarn himself would have toppled into the sea had Regal not seized his belt and pulled him back.
Ignoring Slickblade’s hysterical commands, the dark dwarf rowers pulled away, making for the shore with all possible haste. The curses of the infuriated assassin were quickly drowned out by the tumult.
The choppy waters of the sea began to rock the boat. The forces of Chaos were wreaking havoc on the normally placid waters of the lake. The harbors of Thorbardin had been constructed without the breakwaters that Tarn knew were common protection for ports of the surface world. After all, why should the dwarves build a barrier to stop waves that had never before existed?
Tarn heard screams and saw one of the Daergar lake boats pitching dangerously against the docks. Pushed by a surge of water, the metal hull crushed several of its passengers and dumped more of them into the frigid and surprisingly deep waters. The armored dwarves immediately disappeared beneath the surface. Their panic-stricken crewmates made no effort to rescue them.
The Aghar, however, seemed utterly oblivious to the prospect of real danger.
“Whee! Ride waves!”
“Faster! Higher! Bigger!”
“This real ride!”
The gully dwarves howled with glee as the boat moved into the full swell of the Urkhan Sea. Tarn was sickened by the lurching and uncontrolled motion of their boat, but the Aghar seemed to enjoy the rollicking ride. Perhaps it was good that none of them had been on a boat before. They didn’t understand how unnatural this roiling swell was on the enclosed underground sea.
On the other hand, the gully dwarves would have probably whooped with delight if they’d been faced with a hurricane. Tarn felt his heart skip a beat every time another wave sloshed into the hull. He recognized the imminent danger: every wave brought more water spilling over the bow and sloshing down the length of the long keel.