An Emperor's Gamble (Legend of Tal: Book 3)

by J. D. L. Rosell

  Minutes passed. Garin debated leaving. If this truly was a farm as it appeared, he was wasting his time, and Tal might not have much to spare. But just as he set his intentions to depart, distant shouts sounded from within the cave.

  Tensing, he strained to listen, but could make out no words. From his brief studies of sorcery, he was aware that some spells could strengthen the acuity of one's senses. But such secrets were beyond his capabilities; they would do him no good now.

  Another sound turned his attention back outside. Peering between the boulders, he stared at figures emerging into the narrow canyon.

  He froze at what he saw.

  At first, their faces were shadowed by the sun's angle and the fading light. But as they came closer, he could make out their features and hear their words. The tongue they spoke twisted in his ears, almost familiar, but just defying comprehension.

  He knew them to be Easterners even before they came into view.

  And they were not only Easterners. Weapons, bared and bright, were clasped in their hands. Armor was visible beneath their furs and cloaks. Their faces were marred with scars, and helmets sat atop their heads. Their expressions were hard as they proceeded past the cave farm and made for the town.

  Garin shrank back from his viewpoint and listened in mute fear as a dozen of the newcomers passed. Every Bloodline he knew from the East was represented: minotaur, Nightelf, sylvan, human, orkan, even gnomes. They bore no common insignia or coat-of-arms. But he knew who they were all the same.

  Ravagers had come to Vathda.

  He thought desperately of what he should do. He could not give the town warning without exposing himself and swiftly being slain. Yet to allow the Ravagers to ambush them was just as incomprehensible. What if his companions were hurt? There would be more than just twelve, he was sure of it, judging from the number of them who had raided Elendol.

  The Ravagers were passing him by all the while he tried to decide. Then the sound of voices and footsteps echoed from within the cave.

  Garin flinched as the Easterners whirled toward the entrance. Those who had bows raised them, ready to draw at a moment's notice. He barely dared to breathe. He was mostly hidden by the boulders. But they had only to squint at the opening he peered through to detect him.

  Their attention was occupied, however, by the four figures who emerged from the darkness. The two at the fore argued, oblivious to their danger.

  A warning stuck in Garin's throat. He recognized Lord Dathal a moment before an arrow took him in the shoulder and sent him spinning to the ground.

  Guilt and horror stabbed through Garin.

  He steadied himself against the stone. He had never liked or trusted Dathal, but neither did he wish him dead.

  But it seemed the Clan Chief was not finished yet.

  "Kill them!" Lord Dathal bellowed, rising with an axe in hand. "Kill them all! Vathda, rise!"

  With that, the Ravagers fell on the hopelessly outnumbered dwarves.

  Damnation

  Garin watched mutely as the dwarves were swallowed by the Ravagers' assault.

  A horrid song, worse even than the Nightsong, filled his ears. Shrieks and screaming steel. Bodies twisting and cavorting and falling. Grunts and curses and wet squelches.

  He awoke from his shock to Ilvuan's claws digging into his mind.

  Flee! The Singer's voice was weak but urgent. Or you will die here!

  I can't! He hadn't realized the resolution he'd silently made until that moment. If I try to flee, they'll kill me. Worse, they'll head into Vathda and kill the others.

  You have no metal claw to wield, Jenduit, and your command of sorcery is little more than a hatchling's. You will not prevail.

  Garin put up his refusal as a barrier to Ilvuan's words and plotted furiously. He dismissed each of his cantrips; none were powerful enough to make a difference, and certainly not before an arrow found his throat.

  Then an idea occurred to him. It turned his stomach even to consider. Yet it was the only option he saw.

  The spell I used in Low Elendol. Can you help me with it again?

  Ilvuan's disdain radiated from him, yet he answered grudgingly. No. Our bond is still too tenuous for that. You must rely upon yourself.

  How?

  Impatience lashed against him, but Garin bore it stoically.

  Summon the Song! Ilvuan grated, as if that might make the situation any more clear. Harness it! But should you fail, you will be swept down into the Doash, never to return.

  There was no time to question what he meant. The dwarves were somehow still standing under the assault, but were quickly losing ground. If he was going to take advantage of his anonymity, he had to do it now.

  Sucking in a breath, Garin held out his hands and, holding the memories of the spell's effect with cut-glass clarity, spoke the words, soft but clear:

  "Keld vorv alak."

  The Nightsong immediately swelled in his head, the disparate din of it drowning out the melee. A crack of breaking timber. A moan of undisguised passion. A dog's whimper. One after another, the sounds built up into a teetering, tumultuous stack that threatened to topple Garin over. He stood amid a tempest, a storm he could not hope to direct.

  And yet, that was precisely what he was supposed to do.

  Garin threw all his will against the Song. It was like grappling with water. It slipped between his fingers, moved around him to harry him from another angle. The Song was not a thing that could be touched or bound. It couldn't be corralled like a herd of sheep. It was wild, untamed. A force unto itself.

  Only as he realized this did he understand how the Nightsong could be harnessed. If he could not wrestle it into the form he wished, the only option left was to mold himself to it.

  Like sucking in a breath, Garin drew the Song into himself.

  The sounds had filled his head before; now, he felt them reverberating from deeper within, in a part of himself beyond his body. The Nightsong vibrated through his limbs, through his chest, and down into his mind and self.

  The Song was in him. The Song was him. And, for the first time, he actually heard it as a song.

  The melody was tremulous at first; the harmony, even more so. The rhythm started and faltered and started up again. But like a heart after sleep, with each passing moment, it seemed to waken a little more. Garin imagined it as a play: each of the actors finding their role, the scene finally coming together. The Song resolved into something like a lament for the departed, achingly familiar and hauntingly sad. Evershifting and ever-changing, he felt as if he could never tire of listening to it.

  But it was not altogether peaceful. Something like energy hummed through Garin, increasing as the Song took shape. He lifted his hands, expecting them to shake apart from the vibrations cascading through his body. To his eyes, they appeared normal, but heat was gathering in them to an uncomfortable degree. He winced, holding them away from himself. He couldn't endure them growing any hotter. They seared as if he'd thrust them into a stove and held them there. Surely, they must fall apart into ashes.

  Then, just as a scream welled up in his throat, fire leaped forth from his hands.

  With a blast of heat and a thunderous roar, tongues of flame curled from his hands, leaping through the gap in the boulders before him and out toward the shapes beyond. Garin squinted against the flash of bright light. It felt strange to use his eyes after all his being had been concentrated on sound, and his vision faded in and out.

  Yet in a way beyond sight, he could sense his spell's progression. He felt the first arc of fire find its target, curling into it through every orifice, burning it from the inside out. For a moment, he reveled in its utter, merciless devouring — then he abruptly came back to himself.

  The dwarves. If any were still alive, he had to prevent any harm from finding them.

  Yet his second fire-worm had leaped onto its victim, and he could not tell if it was a dwarf or a Ravager. Anxiety swirled in him, tilting the Song dangerously off-balance. He felt
the sorcery falter and the flames thin.

  With a ruthlessness he hadn't known he possessed, Garin shoved down his mercy and fueled the spell onward.

  The fires, having consumed their first two victims, sought more. With his eyes wide, Garin tried to urge them away from the squat, dark shapes he guessed were the remaining two dwarves. Left! he thought at them, imagining himself as Falcon frantically gesturing at a trouper off their mark. And as if he was indeed in control, the snakes of flames complied, surging to the taller forms to Garin's left.

  These Ravagers, too — if they were indeed Ravagers — fell to the ravenous spell, while their companions fled. But he could not let them get away. Directing with his arms along with his will, Garin urged the fire-tongues after them. It took an effort to pry them away from half-charred corpses, but they unwillingly went, arcing through the air to splash and envelop two more targets. A couple others fled past their dying companions, too fast for Garin to muster the focus to pursue.

  Blinking rapidly, he tried to take in the scene before him as the fire-tongues finished the final victim. Bodies smoldered on the ground around him, the six casualties of his spell sprawled where the flames had caught them. More had fallen besides. Stumbling forward, Garin made out the features of three dwarves before the cave's entrance. Around them lay four more dead Easterners. By his earlier count, at least two of the invaders had escaped and made for Vathda. Why they pressed forward and did not flee, he could think of only one reason.

  More Ravagers would join them in the assault, approaching from different avenues.

  Wren. Rolan. His companions would be caught unawares. He had to warn them — and protect them, if he could.

  But instead of running off, Garin's gaze latched onto the fallen dwarves again as he came closer. Though the man was facedown, he recognized the crown tilting off the mane of red braids.

  Lord Dathal was dead.

  Unsure how he felt about the discovery, Garin turned back toward the village. He had no time to think. The Song still billowed through him, beautiful and painful all at once. The fire-tongues had burned themselves out, but more energy welled up inside him, insisting on being released.

  Running on trembling legs, Garin made for Vathda.

  Tal heard the faint echo of a yell through the thick, wooden door.

  Abruptly alert, he strained to detect further sounds. Kherdorn had begun to argue with Dathal before they'd traveled out of earshot, though their heated conversation had just been distant enough to escape comprehension. He could only hope it had been in his favor.

  Then he heard the yell. Dathal, he already knew, was more than capable of killing his own subjects should the mood take him. But he could hardly believe he'd attack Kherdorn. Elders were held in high respect in dwarven culture. Surely even the Clan Chief wouldn't besmirch his honor over a small disagreement.

  But after the yell came yet more worrying sounds. Roars of pain and fury. The discord of metal. The crackle of fire.

  Then the abrupt cessation of all sound.

  The silence was the worst sign of all, for it meant a conflict swiftly ended. Tal found he'd risen to his feet, though his starved body and heavy chains barely allowed for it. He shuffled toward the door, as if the iron might disappear from his wrists and ankles, and the door might spring open, and the tainted sorcery might not savage him like a feral beast if he opened its cage. He strained to hear anything of what occurred outside.

  Just then, a sound like someone dragged a sack of potatoes across the ground came from outside the door.

  Tal went completely still, the whole of him straining to listen. Labored breathing; someone had come to his cell. They were just outside. They seemed to be in pain. From the sound before, they had dragged themselves to his door. He couldn't imagine why they would.

  Then the lock began to rattle, the tumblers shifting with the turning of the key. A click, and the door spilled inward, alleviating the gloom with the faint light from without.

  Tal stared mutely at the figure who collapsed within. It was a dwarf by their stature and beard. And that beard — even in the dim illumination, its silver caught and held the light.

  "Kherdorn?" Tal whispered.

  The dwarf spat up something onto his floor, dark and viscous. Blood. Tal's alertness deepened to fear.

  He kneeled and reached toward the dwarf, but his chains held him short. "Kherdorn, is that you? Are you—?"

  He cut off, realizing the dwarf had spoken. Straining to listen, he caught the mumbled words as the dwarf repeated them: "My hand."

  "I can't reach your hand." Tal wondered if he sought some last comfort in life. A lump formed in his throat. Kherdorn was the only one in Vathda who'd shown him any kindness, even when he'd had plenty of reason not to.

  He was about to say more — to babble, he realized, in lieu of listening to the oncoming death — but Kherdorn spoke again.

  "Key," he said, or Tal thought he said. "Key."

  Realization of what he meant set in then, and despite what it had cost the dwarf to bring it, Tal felt a surge of hope.

  "Can you stretch farther? It's just out of reach."

  With a wheezing effort, Kherdorn dragged himself inches closer. Just near enough. Straining at the limits of his chains, he touched the dwarf's hand with the tips of his fingers and, through careful maneuvering, took his key. Drawing back, Tal turned it over to see which way it would fit, trying to ignore the blood that filmed his glove.

  "What happened?" Tal asked as he began fitting the key to his manacles. But if the dwarf answered, it was too faint a reply to be heard over the clanking of the chains. Not daring to slow, Tal continued until all his limbs were freed. A small groan escaped him as he rolled his wrists and ankles, but he pushed aside his relief as he crouched close to the dwarf's face.

  "Would you like me to turn you over?"

  "No time." Kherdorn's words were little more than a wheeze. "Go... to Vathda... protect them."

  The idea that Tal might be able to protect anyone at that moment was laughable. But he didn't feel much like grinning. "Protect them from what?"

  Kherdorn's hand grabbed hard onto Tal's arm. For a dying man, his grip held a surprising strength.

  "Protect them... Death's Hand."

  The fingers spasmed, releasing him. A pained gargle escaped Kherdorn's throat. Tal longed to move as far away as he could from such a horrid sound. Yet he had fled discomfiture all his life. Kherdorn had given him far more kindness than he deserved. He could do nothing else but stay.

  So stay he would.

  Tal held the dwarf's hand until his last breath rattled free of his body.

  "May you walk your ancestors' halls and drink of ale everlasting." Tal murmured the dwarven saying to the departed. Then, with a final press on the slackened hand, he rose.

  Kherdorn had spent his last moments in life freeing Tal. Good-hearted as the dwarf had been, he knew better than to believe it a mere final act of kindness.

  Protect them, Death's Hand.

  Something had killed him. Tal had a feeling this was not Dathal's work. Something had spawned enough fear in the dwarf that he had sought the dubious aid of his people's prisoner. Such an act defied his Clan Chief. It made the dwarf a traitor.

  Protect them.

  Tal stepped free of his cell and smiled bitterly into the murk. His wasted body protested every movement, screaming for sustenance. In however many days he had spent in the cell, he hadn't eaten so much as a crumb. And now, Kherdorn had left him with the dying wish that he defend his people from an unknown threat.

  "Silence, I can't protect them," he muttered. "Best I can do is die for them."

  Only then did he realize that if it came to that, he would. Redemption, after all, was not a chance often given. He had craved such an opportunity all his life.

  He wouldn't spurn it now.

  Tal closed his eyes and sent his focus inward. With the utmost care, he eased down the barrier on his sorcery just a fraction. Even as small an allowanc
e as he gave, however, he felt it rush into his veins. Soon, he was shivering with heat instead of cold, warm for the first time in days.

  But the relief came with pain as the canker exacted its price. Splitting agony cut through his mind, like knives scraped along the inside of his skull. Tal found himself bent over, heaving up the little water in his belly, before he could fight the nausea back down.

  "You bet on the wrong rogue, Kherdorn," Tal gasped, then teetered toward the cave's exit.

  Redemption

  Dusk was brightened with flames by the time Garin returned to Vathda.

  As he drew near, he stared at the destruction in mute horror. Between the standing stones, fire could be seen enveloping the great hall and quickly spreading to the few other buildings erected along the town's commons. Throughout the burning town, silhouettes danced like the shadows of puppets at a marionetteer's performance. The bizarre impression was undermined by the cries of violence accompanying it.

  His guess that more Ravagers had attacked from different routes appeared to be correct. Vathda was being razed, and he had no idea what provoked it. Yet even realizing the danger, with the Song still surging inside him, harmonious and glorious in its strains, Garin had to fight hard to hold onto his urgency.

  He avoided the main melee in the center of town and headed for his companions' rooms. He could only hope Wren and the others had the sense to stay put. It didn't seem likely.

  To his relief, no Ravagers appeared in his way. As he reached Wren's chamber, he knocked and shouted, "Open up! It's me, Garin!"

  Far swifter than expected, the door opened wide. Wren and Ashelia stood in the doorway, wrapped in their furs, their swords bared and in hand. His stomach sank at the sight, though he had expected no less.