by Sam Ferguson
Phinean stared at the burning pile and stretched out a single hand.
“We have to get out of here,” Jaleal said.
“Jahre,” Phinean said. “He was inside there when I left to find you.”
Jaleal glanced to the pile and then shook his head. “Come on, no one could have survived that.”
The warrior gnome tugged on Phinean’s arm, dragging the stout gnome as he rushed down the street. They followed the crowds as they darted through rubble-filled streets and picked their way around burning heaps until they escaped.
Jaleal counted thousands of people sitting on the ground outside the city walls. Brown dirt and gray ash covered their bodies. Some were tending to scrapes and cuts they had received while escaping. Others sat and stared out blankly. Families huddled together.
The gnomes broke out toward the green trees of the forest. Phinean turned and looked back at the city many times, muttering something that Jaleal couldn’t quite hear. When they finally found a place to sit, Jaleal looked back and whistled through his teeth as he surveyed the scene. It had been hellish on the inside, but looking at the city from the outside didn’t do much to improve the situation. Flames shot up into the sky, tearing through the blanket of jet smoke, and screams could still be heard faintly from behind the walls.
A seemingly endless column of escapees streamed out through the gates.
Only one thing Jaleal could think of would do this kind of damage. He turned to Phinean. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll find the dragon that did this and we will put him down.” He stood and flashed his spear, spinning it over in his hand for effect before stamping the butt end into the grass. “I have hunted dragons before.”
Phinean shook his head. “This was no dragon,” he said. “This was a man.”
“A man?” Jaleal shook his head and looked at the city. “Not possible. I have fought alongside a powerful sorceress, and this is very much beyond even her ability. No man could do this.”
“Talon could,” Phinean said.
“How?”
Phinean motioned for Jaleal to sit. “Medlas was a city built atop a great deposit of natural gas that resided deep within the bowels of the earth. The elves long ago created a network of pipes and pumps to use that gas to improve the city. With it, they could heat their homes, light their streets, and produce great boilers that heated the bath houses and also fueled some of the best forges in the Elven Isles. It appears as though he has managed to sabotage them.”
Jaleal stood slack jawed for a while, then he sat next to Phinean and whistled through his teeth again. The two of them were silent for a few moments as they watched the chaotic scene before them.
“Perhaps it is too late,” Phinean said. “Jahre is dead.”
Jaleal wrinkled his nose and looked to Phinean. “What about these artifacts you say Talon was after? Does he have those too?”
Phinean shrugged. “Jahre foretold that he would acquire them. He also foretold that he would find the cursed sword I told you about. I was foolish. I thought I could find you before Talon would strike.”
“Can the Goresym still help?” Jaleal asked as he produced the magical stone.
Phinean’s eyes regained their determination and he nodded. “Come, we have to find him. He will have gone back north, to Bluewater. It’s through the forest.”
Jaleal leapt to his feet. Phinean started for the road but Jaleal grabbed him. “Why take the road, brother? We are gnomes!” Jaleal ran straight for the nearest tree, half-dragging Phinean behind him. Phinean pulled away at the last second and Jaleal slammed face-first into a great pine tree. His head rang sharply and he stood rigid for a second before falling back to his rump. He rubbed his head and groaned.
“Why on Terra’s name would you do that?” Phinean asked as he rushed beside Jaleal.
“Why?” Jaleal repeated sarcastically. “We’re gnomes. Why can’t I use the tree to travel?”
“Travel with a tree?” Phinean asked.
Jaleal shook off the ringing in his head and went back to the pine. “Not with the tree, through it,” he explained. He slapped the tree with his right palm and then pressed an ear to it. “I can hear its life force, but I cannot access it.”
“What are you talking about?” Phinean asked.
Jaleal turned back, his lips curled down into a frown and his brow knit together. “Haven’t you ever traveled through a tree? We use the roots and branches to speed our journey. It’s a very common thing for gnomes to do.”
Phinean shook his head. “Maybe where you are from it is, but here no such thing is possible.”
“What?” Jaleal turned back to the tree and tried to enter it again, albeit much slower than the first time. Again, the tree denied him access. “What evil is this?”
Phinean stepped in close, shaking his head. “As I told you before. Magic is different here. We are about as far away from the Heart of Terramyr as one can get. The world’s energies do not extend as strongly to this area. I am afraid we will have to walk like everyone else.” Phinean then pointed to Jaleal’s spear. “If you are used to throwing that and recalling it through magic, then I suggest you buy a bow. If you throw it out here, you won’t be able to call it back.”
“So, no magic works out here?” Jaleal asked in a whisper.
Phinean shook his head. “That isn’t what I said. It’s just much harder. Imagine you lifted a stone that was ten pounds back in your home. It seems easy enough and you can do it anytime you wish. However, that same stone out here would weigh one hundred pounds, or maybe three times that. So, while magic is possible to perform out here, it takes a different kind of dedication and practice because everything is much more difficult to perform. For those of us who are of the Natural Races, the effects are even greater.”
“You mean humans and elves could use magic with better effect than gnomes can out here? That can’t be just a matter of distance,” Jaleal posited.
Phinean shook his head. “It isn’t. It is also a legacy from the Mage Wars. That is a history lesson we don’t have time for, however. Just trust me when I say that magic is much more difficult out here to perform. Those who can cast spells efficiently are rare, and they are very difficult to thwart if their hearts are set on destruction.”
“So out here, a sorcerer would be very deadly,” Jaleal said.
“Precisely. Though you may have a good command of magic back where you are from, the natural boost that Terramyr grants to her natural races like us gnomes doesn’t reach us in full. Those who have the gift out here are extremely well trained, and they are very, very cunning in their use of magic. Unless you have spent years practicing your spells under these more difficult circumstances, you would be unable to counter a wizard’s magic out here. Your healing spells will have little or no effect at all. Even to recall your spear to you will likely take some practice.”
“Does anyone have natural ability then?”
“Oh yes!” Phinean nodded. “Most elves who lived before the Mage Wars retained their abilities. There are also a few who continue to train, but you will be more likely to see masters of one art, rather than a mage who can perform several types of magic. It is too difficult to train in multiple disciplines out here. Even with that, magic itself is more rare now as well. The Mage Wars was a time when magic, and magic users, were almost entirely eradicated.”
Jaleal nodded and then pointed to the road. “Well, shall we get on the trail? I imagine this Talon fellow has quite the lead on us so far.”
Phinean nodded and the two turned for the road.
CHAPTER 2
Murdok ducked into the entrance to the northwestern tower and beat the dust from his uniform. The arid, hot wind kicked up dust throughout Rasselin. It was one of the things he hated most about this city. He would much prefer the forests of Shinder, but in his hometown there was no work to be had. He heard steps echoing down from the stairs. He looked up to see Vernon, one of the other city guards, descending while shaking his head.
/> “No need to go up,” Vernon said. “One of the regulars is up there, and he has assured me everything is under control.” Vernon rolled his eyes and twirled his finger next to his ear. “These army types are wound a bit too tight if you ask me.”
Murdok chuckled and nodded. “I’ll just go on up and have a look for myself.”
“They’ll order you out,” Vernon said with a sigh.
Murdok shrugged and started up the stairs. He wasn’t concerned about the soldiers above. As far as he could tell, they were all supposed to be on the same side. He made his way to the top and started toward the rectangular wooden table on the far side of the tower. A bald-headed man looked up at him from the chair and grunted. Two others near the railing looked back as well.
“We have the tower covered from here, citizen,” one of the guards said.
Murdok nodded. “With respect, this is my post, and I will be joining you gentlemen for the duration of my shift.”
The two men at the rail glanced to each other and then the bald man stood. He was large, roughly six and a half feet tall, with shoulders as wide as two men standing side by side. His waist was narrow, nestled between his barrel-like chest and his tree-trunk sized thighs.
“With respect,” the bald man mocked, “if the guard was capable of doing its job, you would still be under Governor Gandle’s watch right now.” The two men at the railing laughed and turned their gazes back to the northern desert.
Murdok bristled, but he quickly recovered and shrugged nonchalantly. “I wasn’t on his detail,” he said. “If I had been, he would still be alive.” He crossed the remaining distance to the table and took the chair from the bald man. He made a show of dragging it across the floor to the opposite side of the table where he wanted to sit while the mountainous man glared at him.
“That’s my chair,” the man said roughly.
Again, Murdok shrugged. “I have reports to complete,” Murdok said. He pointed to the brown book on the table next to the large man. “Hand me the daily log book, if you please,” he said.
“Get it yerself,” the bald man grumbled. He turned and went to stand next to the other two men. Murdok could hear them whispering, and saw them occasionally glance back at him, but he held firm. He wasn’t about to let anyone run him out of his post. He reached across the table and took the log book in hand. He flipped through the previous reports. Normally he would find the notes left from the shift before his, but this time he found the notes had stopped a couple of days ago, about the time that General Tehrigg arrived into town. In fact, the last notes were Murdok’s own from his final shift before his two days off.
“Why are there no entries?” Murdok asked aloud. “General Tehrigg took the army out to Hart’s Bridge, but there is no mention of that in this log. Why haven’t you recorded it?”
The bald man turned and eyed Murdok with contempt. “If the book is so important, go ahead and write it. We deal with real problems, we are not bookkeepers.”
Murdok took the pen and began to scribble down his notes. “When did the three of you take up your posting here? That should be marked as well.”
The bald man crossed the distance between them in four steps and ripped the log book from Murdok. He glanced at it, then back to his comrades, and then he casually flipped the book out over the side of the tower. “Oops,” he said with a shrug.
Murdok sat still, watching the three of them for a few moments. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something was wrong, he could feel it.
“General Tehrigg and Councilor Bahn have given us our orders,” one of the others said. “We don’t answer to the likes of the city guard, nor are we beholden to your rules. If you want to stay up here with us, fine, but keep yer mouth shut.”
Murdok nodded and folded his arms. Never had he encountered men like these before, and he had dealt with all kinds of merchants and mercenaries as they traveled through Rasselin. These men were different, and certainly not what he would have expected from the mighty Zinferth army. He stared out to the desert, forcing the men from his mind. The sun was beginning to set, casting an orange and purple hue across the dusty sky.
As the light waned, Murdok spied banners emerging from the horizon. The others saw them too, it seemed, for they all pointed and whispered amongst themselves. Murdok watched the approaching group for several minutes. What at first seemed to be only a few, became thousands of people. Murdok rose to his feet and went to the railing. He expected that General Tehrigg was on his way back from Hart’s Bridge, though from this distance he couldn’t be sure.
The bald man and one of the other soldiers walked away. The third came up to Murdok’s side and held out a spy glass.
“Here, this will help,” he said.
Murdok took the instrument and put it to his left eye. “Looks like Tehrigg is returning,” Murdok commented. A thought came to him then, why would the soldier be nice now, after they had all been more than happy to torment him since he arrived. Murdok pulled the spy glass away and turned to regard the soldier. A flash of light caught his attention and reflexively Murdok swung his head back just as a dagger sailed by his neck. The tip nicked a bit of skin, causing a terrible sting but no serious damage.
“Sorry mate,” the soldier said with a grin. The man rushed in again, pulling another knife with his free hand and slicing and stabbing at Murdok.
Murdok dodged and jumped out of the way, then he used the spy glass as a club, breaking it over the soldier’s head. The soldier went down hard, blood pouring from the gash in the side of his head, but he wasn’t done. The soldier growled and lunged again. Murdok dove to the side and caught the soldier with his ankle. The soldier tripped and flew face-first into the corner post. Murdok heard a sickening crack and then the soldier fell to the ground, hands twitching wildly.
Murdok jumped to his feet and looked around. The other two were down below. No one had seen the fight. He turned and looked out to the oncoming army. “Why would he attack like that?” Murdok asked himself aloud. He looked down to the corpse, and then back out to Tehrigg. A sickening feeling ripped through his heart and created a crushing weight in the pit of his stomach. He went for the spy glass, but it was destroyed beyond use. He went back to the table and pulled his backpack up. He always kept a secondary spy glass with him while on tower duty. He reached in, shoving the bread and wineskin out of the way. He pulled the small spy glass out and went to the edge of the tower. He looked at the army.
Tehrigg was indeed leading the group, but only the first few ranks wore the colors of Zinferth. Behind them were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of soldiers wearing the tell-tale yellow capes behind their armor. They were not Zinferthians, they were Shausmatians. Murdok wheeled around to look at the next tower on the north side of Rasselin. His throat tightened and went dry. Another city guard was fighting with another Zinferth soldier. Only this time, the soldier won and the city guardsman fell by the sword.
Murdok understood at once that Rasselin was under attack, and he had to sound the alarm. He grabbed his sword from the table and went for the stairs. He rushed down the stairs to get to the bell room. He ran in so fast he didn’t see the corpse in the doorway. He tripped over a dead guardsman and fell flat on his stomach.
“Nice of you to join us,” the bald man said with a grin. “Though, I had hoped Bricker would have been able to handle a pesky worm like you.”
“No worries Macklen,” the other soldier said. “If Bricker can’t even best a city guard, then he has no place with us.”
“Quite right,” the bald man said.
Murdok looked up to see the bald man setting the bell down upon the floor. Somehow, the giant man had unhinged the bell and rendered it inoperable. There would be no alarm from this tower.
The bald man noted Murdok’s gaze and started laughing. “Don’t worry, mate, none of the bells will ring tonight. Tehrigg is going to come in and change the leadership here.”
“Traitors,” Murdok hissed. “Why?”
Mack
len shrugged. Then he and the other soldier rushed at him.
Murdok rolled to the side and leapt up to his feet. The bald man drew and swung his sword, but Murdok was able to escape the blade’s deadly kiss. Murdok then brought his sword up in a diagonal sweep that caught the large man in the side, just under the armpit. Macklen roared and bent over, unable to bring his sword up to defend as Murdok effortlessly changed directions and slashed his blade through the man’s neck.
The final soldier rushed in with a great thrust. Murdok spun out of the way, slapping the soldier’s blade wide as he twirled. The soldier recovered and countered with a diagonal chop, but Murdok jumped backward and well out of reach. The soldier again rushed in.
Murdok jumped back, placing his right leg against the wall and then pushing off for extra momentum. He dove downward, rolling and somersaulting below the soldier’s swinging blade. Then he lashed out as he rose to a kneeling position, catching the solider across the right hamstring. The wound was deep, nearly to the bone, and the soldier collapsed as blood gushed from his leg. The man’s sword clattered to the floor and his whole body began shaking violently. The soldier’s face became pale as a ghost.
Murdok sheathed his sword and went to the soldier. “What is the plan?” he asked.
“Khefir take you, and roast you upon a spit,” the soldier hissed. Though the strength was gone from the man’s body, there was a fire in his eyes. Murdok knew that he would not get any answers from him, certainly not in time to help seal the gates. Murdok picked the man’s head up by the hair, reached down and took a firm grip of the man’s jaw as he moved his other hand to the back of his skull.