by Doug Niles
The light rained downward, streaming through all the levels of the great city, probing into each ruined chamber, seeking, finding the beings of Chaos wherever they tried to hide. It found the suffering dwarves as well and carried them away more gently.
In the air over the Urkhan Sea, Zarak Thuul was shocked by the first wave of light. He emitted a long, tortured wail, screaming his defiance. The power of the light seared his flesh and burned hotter even than the fires of his eyes. The daemon warrior writhed under the onslaught of that magical assault, shaking his fists, howling in fury as the power of Chaos tore at him and drove him down, surrounding him and quenching his power. Primus, too, cried in surreal pain. The white light embraced the fire dragon, drowning the brightness of his pure flame and tearing him into shreds of chaos that settled toward the lake waters in a flurry of dying sparks.
The daemon warrior tumbled through space, still howling, striking out against nothing and everything as the power of the platinum artifact swept him away. The dark waters of the lake were all around him. And then they were gone. Still the magic drove him, smashing and pounding, irresistible and overwhelming. The planes of darkness whirled past, and shreds of aether tore at his burning flesh until once more Zarak Thuul tumbled into the bleak prison of the Abyss.
All of Thorbardin was illuminated as if it had been opened to the sky on a sunny day. In their cities on the shores of the underground sea the surviving Daewar gazed in awe while the Theiwar and Daergar howled, clasping hands to blinded eyes. Baker Whitegranite, who was the light, continued to expand outward. Knowing he was the tool of the gods and the ancient dragons, he embraced his destiny, spreading across the cool, dark waters of the Urkhan Sea.
When those waters finally took him, Baker accepted his end. The darkness that closed over his head brought him a renewed sense of calm.
And at last, peace.
Epilogue
Tarn had expected that his first daylight in two decades would be painful or, at the very least, uncomfortable to his dark-tuned eyes. Instead, he and Belicia emerged into the Valley of Thanes during the ghostly blue of pre-dawn, with the sight of the sky overhead the most beautiful thing he had ever witnessed.
There were thousands of other dwarves here, Hylar and Aghar and even many Klar, all of whom had escaped the Life-Tree and found their way through the mountain to the surface. This was only a percentage of those who had lived and died in Hybardin, but these dwarves were safe—at least for now.
He and Belicia had walked and crawled for a long time. Sometimes they had been alone, other times with nameless others, all seeking refuge. They had followed instinct and guesswork as they sought escape out of the mountain. And finally they had come here, to the ancient burial grounds of the kingdom, the lofty valley cradled among vastly higher summits.
Tarn was startled as a wild-eyed Klar rose to his feet from behind a nearby rock. The half-breed’s hand went to his weapon, but something in the other dwarf’s manner held his hand from the instinctive attack.
“What do you want?” he growled, stepping protectively in front of Belicia.
“Here,” said the fellow, his gaze flashing between the two refugees. He extended a small object, and Tarn heard the splashing of water. “Drink,” suggested the Klar.
“Thank you.” At once Tarn noticed that he was terribly thirsty. He uncapped the flask and sniffed the odor of sweet water before taking a small drink. He then passed the drink to Belicia. She took a sip, then he slaked his own thirst before handing it back. “Who are you?” he asked.
“Tufa Bloodeye, thane of the Klar,” declared the bedraggled dwarf, allowing a hint of pride to creep into his voice.
Tarn noticed that his eyes were shot through with crimson, so stark and red that they might in fact have been filled with blood.
“We’re at peace again, your clan and mine?” asked Tarn hesitantly.
“Peace with you. You Hylar, right?”
“Yes, we’re Hylar,” Tarn replied. For the first time in his life he felt he really belonged to his father’s clan. He and Belicia left Tufa Bloodeye, continuing into the vast valley and looking at the dwarves who were huddled everywhere.
“Did any of the Daergar survive?” asked Belicia numbly. “What about your mother?”
Tarn shook his head sadly. “I doubt it.”
“And Regal—or Chisel. What about him?”
Tarn forced a rueful smile. “Him I wouldn’t be so sure about.”
“What is left of Thorbardin? What do we do now?” asked Belicia, slipping her hand through the crook of his elbow and pulling him close. She was numb and grieving, but her eyes were dry and her chin strong, high, firm.
“The hill dwarves will help us,” Tarn said, with more confidence than he felt. “The time for war between the clans has passed.”
“And Hybardin—will we go back there some day?”
“Perhaps we shall; certainly our children will.”
“Until then, we’ll have each each other,” his beloved concluded.
And from the sky, low on the horizon after sunset, there came the gleaming twinkle of a lone red star.
Legacy of Steel
An Excerpt
by Mary Herbert
Available November 1998
Sara eventually found Fewmet just outside a tavern. The grimy establishment crouched not far from the ramshackle huts of the little Aghar colony near the city dump. Although not auspicious for human business, most draconians and ogres did not seem to mind the constant stench or the occasional ox-stunning odor that drifted over the area when the wind was right.
The stumpy gully dwarf was sitting on a wooden sidewalk, humming softly to himself and gnawing on a bone. When he saw Sara, he bobbed his head and offered her a shy smile while attempting to stuff the bone into the rags of his shirt.
“I’ve been looking for you,” she said as she squatted down beside the dwarf.
He gazed at her in amazement. “Was I lost?”
“No,” she chuckled. “I just didn’t know where to find you.”
He clutched his bone and glared at her suspiciously. “Why you look for Fewmet? No one look for gully dwarf.”
“I just wanted to thank you for helping me the other night. That was very brave of you.”
Fewmet’s wrinkled face beamed. “Knight woman nice. Should not feed to horaxes.”
Sara laughed. “I was very glad to get out of there.”
The gully dwarf hunkered down and glanced both ways before he said, “I hear you fight mean knight who kicks gully dwarves.”
“News certainly travels fast around here,” Sara observed. “Yes, I challenged him.”
“Good. I no like. You remember this: knight have bad knee. I see sometimes. He go to many taverns in city.”
Sara’s brow drew together in a frown. “I’ve never noticed that Massard has a limp.”
“Not always. He try to walk straight. But knee is weak. Remember when you fight.” He wagged a filthy finger at her.
Sara tucked that piece of information away. She expected Massard would choose swords for his weapons, which meant she would have little opportunity to exploit the gully dwarf’s information. Still, one never knew when such a tidbit could come in handy.
Ignoring the nasty looks and rude remarks from the draconian customers, she went into the tavern and ordered a bowl of stew, a wedge of cheese, and a honey cake. The barman, when he heard what she was going to do with the food, insisted she pay for the utensils too. Sara shrugged nonchalantly and paid, then carried the food outside to the gully dwarf. The barman had refused to let him eat inside.
Fewmet was delighted. He had never eaten an entire hot meal all by himself. Sara stayed with him, her sword close to hand, just to ensure his safety. Other gully dwarves gathered close to watch enviously, but no one dared bother him while the quiet woman stayed beside him.
He shoveled his food with both hands, licked every utensil clean, and then ate the honey cake in three crumbly bites. Sara watched him
, guessing he probably could have scavenged a second meal just by combing his beard. After the meal, she presented the bowl and plate to him as a gift.
Sara solemnly shook the little dwarf’s hand before departing. Glancing back, she saw him busily stuffing his new dishes into his bag and humming the same tuneless song.
The appointed day of the duel dawned with the first clear day Neraka had seen in weeks. The sun climbed into a flawless sky and, for the first time in weeks, the cold eased into a bearable cool. By noon the weather was positively balmy for a Nerakan winter. The unexpected warmth brought the crowds to the Arena of Death in droves.
Lately, challenges among the knights had been rare due to the scarcity of officers. So a duel between two of the older knights was cause for much anticipation. The fact that one was a man and the other a woman just made it more interesting. Betting grew heavy, and by noon Massard was the favorite two to one.
In the tents of the Red Quarter, the members of the Sixth Talon hovered around their junior officer until Sara wanted to scream at them. She appreciated their solicitous efforts to feed her and advise her and prepare her for battle, but all she really wanted was a little distance and some quiet to settle her nervousness. Instead Derrick insisted he should polish and sharpen her sword. Saunder had found a mail shirt that fit her and was busy repairing a broken link. Marika fussed over her tea and toasted bread. Kelena polished her boots. And Jacson paced back and forth demonstrating defensive moves that she already knew.
Sara tried to smile graciously, but it soon became so difficult that she finally took her food and weapons into the tent, firmly fastening the flap behind her. The five knights in training exchanged mournful glances and counted the minutes until noon.
In her tent, Sara drank a cup of her tonic for headaches and lay down on her cot to rest.
Knight Officer Massard appeared shortly thereafter, blowing in like a thunderstorm. He stamped around the tents and shouted, “On your feet, you yellow-backed spawn of gully dwarves. You have work to do.” He sneered as they jumped to attention. “Yaufre, put that thing down. Conby won’t be needing it. Put out that fire! Clean up this mess! What do you think this is, a latrine?”
Sara, still in her tent, decided wisely to stay out of sight. Sometimes discretion was the better part of valor. From his loud voice and ugly behavior, she knew he was trying to lure her out into the open. But this was neither the time nor the place to pick a fight.
Massard charged around, snapping orders like bolts of lightning and punctuating each demand with furious insults. When he was satisfied with the order of the camp, he lined the recruits up before his tent.
“Now that you’re finished putting this dump in order,” he growled, relishing every word, “you will report to Knight Officer Darcan at the stables. He has some muck for you to rake.”
“No! We can’t—” Jacson inadvertently cried.
Massard took one step to the young squire. His eyes narrowed to mere slits and before anyone could move, he viciously backhanded the youth across the mouth.
The blow sent Jacson reeling. Cat like, he caught himself before he stumbled into the fire ring and crouched, his hand reaching for his dagger.
“Jacson, no!” Derrick hissed. The bigger youth grabbed his friend’s arms and wrestled him back into line.
“Wise,” Massard said, his voice full of venom. “Now move!”
They knew all the pleading in the world would not help. For some reason Massard did not want them to go to the duel with Sara, and his rank prevented them from gainsaying him. They shifted in their places. Jacson’s face glowed red with fury, and Marika hunched her shoulders and clenched her fists, ready to strike Massard’s sneering face.
“Yes, sir,” Derrick said stiffly, forcing his hand to salute his talon leader. He turned to the others and drooped his right eye in a slow wink. His gesture acted as a balm to the others. They understood and relaxed. Angry but resigned, they followed Derrick to the western edge of the tent ring where a large complex of paddocks and stables housed the knights’ horses.
Massard watched them go before wrenching off his sword belt and stomping into his tent. Flinging open the flap, he tossed the sword on the rumpled blankets of his cot and was about to leave when something caught his eye. A bottle, a familiar clay bottle with the wax-sealed cork and the maker’s mark of his favorite dwarf spirits, sat on the stool near his bed. His mouth went dry. He should not drink, not this close to a duel when he would have to fight for his rank and reputation. The drink always slowed his reflexes and did strange things to his vision.
But why should he worry? The woman he was to face was no knight. She had not trained for twenty years or fought with Lord Ariakan during the glorious summer when the Knights of Takhisis had conquered Ansalon. True, she could handle a sword, but he was certain she would not be able to survive what he had in mind.
His hand reached for the bottle. He pulled the cork and inhaled the earthy fumes with a sigh of pleasure. Without bothering to wonder why a bottle of dwarven spirits had been left in his tent, he tipped the bottle up and let the fiery liquid burn a trail to his stomach.
Sara woke with a start. A noise had disturbed her, a light scratching noise that sounded like nails on fabric. She sat up, dazed, and stared at the dim, yellowish light leaking through the tent walls. She had been doing this all too often since Red Eric’s brigands cracked her head. Every time she sat or lay down, she fell asleep.
The scratching came again, louder this time, and the tent material jiggled under the pressure. Someone was at the door.
Sara rose and groggily opened the flap. A goblin face full of obsequious good will, General Abrena’s messenger in a filthy tunic and bits of purloined armor peered up at her. She recognized the scent of steaming stew, loaves of bread, and butter.
Suddenly the height of the sun registered in Sara’s mind, and she cried, “Oh, no! What time is it?”
The goblin peered upward, wondering what the fuss was about. “It’s midday. High sun. General sent me to fetch you. She says almost time.”
Rubbing her neck, Sara tried to calm down. She tied her hair back out of her way, picked up her new sword and dagger, and strapped them on. If Massard chose any other weapon, the general would supply one. Sara had no armor to wear—she’d never had more than the basic pieces worn during training, and those were long gone. She slipped on the heavy chain mail Saunder had given to her. It was better than nothing.
She strode outside into the bright sunshine, the goblin at her heels. The camp seemed strangely empty without the squires. Now that the time had come to leave, she missed their noisy support. It was just like Massard’s vindictive pettiness to send them on some onerous task instead of letting them witness the duel.
“Has Knight Officer Massard already left?” she asked.
The goblin shrugged his knobby shoulders. “Not in tent. Must have.”
“Good.” Sara pulled out her new thong decorated with dragon scale disks.
“You won’t need that. I’m right here.”
Sara twisted around at the sound of the deep voice and saw Cobalt’s horned head lying lazily on the ground beside her tent. The dragon lifted himself off the ground and ambled around beside her. In the noon sun his deep blue scales glowed with a richness all their own.
The goblin yelped and hid behind Sara’s legs.
“Would you like a ride to the arena?” Sara asked the goblin in an effort to be polite.
“No,” said Cobalt and the goblin in one voice. The goblin scurried off before she could make any more dreadful suggestions.
Cobalt waited while Sara saddled him. The dragon extended his leg so she could climb up to his back. As soon as Sara was settled in the saddle, he thrust off with his powerful hind legs.
Sara was grateful that he did not question the wisdom of her challenge. All she wanted now was a few minutes of quiet. She ran her hand down his long sapphire neck, enjoying the smoothness of his scales beneath her palm. She could feel his li
fe-force surging below the protective scales in a hidden current of power and energy. She was thankful more than she could say that he freely gave her his support and companionship.
The dragon winged over Neraka, past the main gate, the Queen’s Way, and the temple ruin. He finally circled over the southeastern side of the city where the Arena of Death sat next to the ex-lord mayor’s Playground.
The arena, a remnant of Queen Takhisis’s days in the city, was an oval-shaped coliseum used for various bloody entertainments and killing sports. Its attractions were quite popular with Neraka’s residents and quite lucrative for officials who charged a few coppers for admission, sold beverages and food, and ran a betting ring. Consequently the lord mayor and now General Abrena made a habit of sponsoring events whenever possible. A duel between two officers was not quite as exciting as watching a mass slaughter of captives by hungry tigers, but there would be enough interest to draw a crowd, especially since the news of Sara’s brush with the horaxes had spread throughout the city.
Cobalt circled around to fly over the arena, giving his rider a chance to see it from above. It was no wonder there was talk of repairing the place. It was a wreck. Too many years had passed, too much blood had been spilled in the sands, too many over-enthusiastic fans had trampled the seats or hacked at the stone with their weapons. Broken awnings and railings littered the grounds both inside and out.
This day a fair-sized crowd had gathered in the dilapidated tiers of seats. They cheered when the large blue spread his wings wide and coasted to the sand-covered floor of the arena.
General Abrena, several of her commanding officers from the Order of the Lily, and a Nightlord from the Order of the Skull walked across the sand to meet Sara. Lord Knight Cadrel carried the scepter of the Adjudicator, the knighthood’s judge in matters of contention.
Sara had seen duels often enough to know the procedure. She slid down from Cobalt’s back, formally saluted the officers, and bowed to the gray-robed Nightlord.