City Under the Sand

by Jeff Mariotte

  Aric stepped closer to the window, looking down as well as he could through the grime-coated glass. The dwarf held a shovel full of charcoal. “But you’re working,” he said. “Best get that in the fire, lest the forge cool.”

  The dwarf’s eyes widened and something akin to a smile danced on his lips for an instant. “You know the smith’s ways?”

  “I am a smith,” Aric said. “And I’ve met Hotak, who told me this is his shop.”

  The dwarf disappeared from the window. A moment later, Aric heard the sound of charcoal being shoveled into the fire, then the pumping of a big bellows. Aric stood there wondering if he should come back another time, when the door opened. “I’m Mazzax,” the dwarf said. “Hotak’s apprentice.”

  “I am Aric, of Nibenay. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mazzax. I’ve been too long from my own forge, and didn’t realize until just now how I miss it.”

  “I couldn’t be away from it for a day,” Mazzax said. “Everything about it … the heat, the sparks, the clang of the sledge against iron on the anvil. It’s in my blood. But … you can’t come in. Shop’s closed. When Hotak returns …”

  “That could be a while,” Aric said. “He’s at the wall.”

  “I know. Preparing for attack. You’re one of the strangers?”

  “I am.”

  “If we’re attacked because of you … if anyone’s hurt … you’d best not stay long, that’s all I’ll say.”

  “I don’t know that anyone followed our path here. If they did, well, it sounds as if the raiders from Fort Dunnat have been troubling your village too long anyway.”

  “True enough.”

  “Believe me, I’d as soon never see those raiders again. And I hope to stay in your village only a short while, then to leave it in peace, as I found it.”

  The dwarf was sizing him up. He seemed satisfied by what he saw. “And you are a smith.”

  “I am indeed.”

  “All right, then. I won’t hate you. Not for now.”

  “That’s good,” Aric said.

  “But you still must leave. Shop’s closed!” Mazzax slammed the door, and Aric heard him shoot the bolt. Then he heard the rhythmic pumping of the bellows once again. So Hotak had a project going, even though he wasn’t here to supervise it. Or the dwarf worked on one of his own. Otherwise he’d let the fire cool, and not bother feeding air into it.

  He walked away from the shop, reluctantly, as it had given him the flavor of home. He let out a long yawn, stretching his arms at the same time. He would speak with Hotak. But perhaps in the morning, after a few hours sleep …

  2

  The raiders came at first light, with the rising sun at their backs. Aric was deeply immersed in a dream. He was the master of a huge smithy, with a dozen forges and even more anvils. The place was crowded with journeymen, working at each forge and anvil, and apprentices doing nothing but working the bellows and stoking the fires. Ruhm was there, and Myrana and Rieve and even Damaric, the barbarian soldier-slave, all of them journeymen, and Aric paced around the shop checking their work, barking out orders. It was a strange dream, but somehow satisfying. When shouts from outside threatened to tear him from it, he tried to hang on.

  Finally, Ruhm shook him. “They’re here,” Ruhm said.

  “Who’s here?” Aric rubbed his eyes. Gradually he understood the sounds coming through the window—sounds of a village under attack. “The thri-kreen?”

  Sellis stood at the window, looking out. “I think it’s raiders,” he said.

  “I thought sure the thri-kreen would finish them.”

  “Perhaps they did. But if others went out looking for their comrades, they’d still have been able to follow our tracks.”

  “We should help,” Ruhm said.

  “Aye,” Sellis agreed.

  Aric dressed quickly. He had no weapon but that short spear he had taken. If there were many raiders, he wanted something better than that. “I’ll meet you at the wall,” he said. He dashed from the tavern, and across the square.

  The forge’s heat still seeped through the walls and window of the blacksmith’s shop. Aric pounded on the door. No one answered, so he went to the window. Through the filmed glass, he could see Mazzax moving about. “Mazzax!” he cried. “It’s me, Aric! Open up!”

  “Shop’s closed.”

  “I know it’s closed! Just open the door!”

  Mazzax did as he asked, opening it a few inches and blocking the way with his squat, solid bulk. “What?”

  “The raiders. They’ve attacked the village.”

  “And if they come here they’ll find the shop closed.”

  His response confused Aric for a moment. Best not try to think like a dwarf, he decided. That will get me nowhere. “I need a weapon,” Aric said. He showed the dwarf his spear, a simple wooden shaft with a chipped obsidian head. The dwarf eyed it with disdain. “I want to go fight at the wall, alongside Hotak and the others. But I need a real weapon, not this paltry thing.”

  “Shop’s closed.”

  “There must be something!”

  “Wait here.” The dwarf slammed the door, shot the bolt. Aric wondered if he’d be left waiting all day. A minute later, the bolt slid back and the door opened, and again Mazzax stood there. “Here,” he said.

  He handed Aric an iron rod, a half-inch in diameter and three feet long. “That’s it?” Aric asked. “That’s all you’ve got? I’m willing to pay—”

  “Shop’s closed.” The door slammed again.

  This time it wouldn’t be re-opening, Aric knew.

  He hefted the iron rod. For a moment, images filled his mind, of Hotak and Mazzax working side by side, of Mazzax obeying the big man’s instructions, copying everything Hotak did, learning the craft from the bottom up. He forced those aside. No time for that now. Still, contact with the metal brought him comfort. It was heavy and it was strong.

  It would, he decided, make a better weapon than this stupid spear.

  Holding both, the spear in his left hand and the rod in his right, he ran toward the wall.

  Most of the villagers had taken up positions on the platforms that ran the length of the village walls. Men and women alike fired bows and crossbows over the wall, ducking behind its protection when similar missiles flew at them. The attackers were screaming threats and warning of what they’d do if the villagers didn’t surrender, and the villagers responded in kind. Several had already fallen, and others worked to move their bodies away from the foot of the wall and to patch the wounded.

  Aric saw Ruhm, Amoni and Sellis up on the wall, and he climbed a ladder to join them. Raiders, dozens of them—more than had initially captured them—swarmed around the village on kanks, on erdlus, and on foot. Most carried shields and weapons, some even wore helms and armor of chitin or bone.

  Sellis glanced at him. “What’s that?”

  “It’s a piece of iron.”

  “What’s it for?”

  A raider leapt from a kank’s back, grabbing onto the wall nearby and starting to haul himself up. Aric raised the rod and slammed it down on the man’s head, cracking his helmet and knocking him from the wall. “That.”

  “Good enough.”

  An arrow clattered against the wall right beneath Aric. Aric ducked away from it, then rose again. The archer was far out of range for him, but others were approaching, including a couple of elves running toward the wall at full speed. When they reached it, they would launch themselves over it and land inside. Aric rested the rod on top of the wall and shifted the spear to his right hand. He waited another few heartbeats, until he could see the elves’ eyes, their parted lips, drawing in air as they ran. One had a pink triangle of tongue showing at the corner of his mouth. Aric aimed at that and hurled his spear.

  The obsidian point sank into the meaty area near the elf’s shoulder. The elf slowed, cursed, and yanked it out. He threw it back over the wall, without taking aim, and kept running. Blood poured down his chest and arm.

  That’s why I
don’t like spears, Aric thought. He hoped his hadn’t hit any villagers, but didn’t dare take his eyes off the approaching elves to check.

  The unwounded elf jumped first. His leap carried him to the top of the wall. He had a mace in his hand, and he swung it, trying to clear a path. But defenders stabbed him with swords and a pike, and he fell backward, landing on the ground below with a loud thump. The second elf sprang over his comrade’s body and, in spite of his wound, landed on top of the wall with momentum to spare. His right foot barely touched the wall, and it flexed, giving him enough spring to keep going into the village. Aric swung his rod up. It struck the elf square in the face. The speed of the elf’s forward motion combined with Aric’s powerful swing was sufficient to flatten the elf’s nose and crush his skull. He howled as his face collapsed. Blood spurted everywhere. The elf fell, inside the wall—the first raider to make it that far. But he would be no threat.

  The raiders retreated, regrouped, and attacked again.

  More villagers fell under this second assault. The raiders were less anxious to rush the walls this time, but fanned out around the village, pelting it with arrows and bolts. Every time a villager fell, another took his or her place.

  There was, however, a limited number of villagers. Soon there wouldn’t be enough to replace the dead and wounded. Aric and his companions had brought this on the village, and that certainty sat on Aric’s shoulders like a horrible weight.

  When the raiders again charged the wall, some carrying crude ladders, he and his friends fought with all the urgency of any villager. Again, they beat back the assault.

  But in another place, at the back of the village the wall was breached.

  Word spread quickly around the platforms. Raiders had made their way through, and were even now working toward the front, where they hoped to fling open the village’s only gate. Some defenders had to leave the wall to stop them, but most had to stay at their posts to prevent more breaches.

  Hotak jumped down from the platform and ran down the street his shop was on. Aric clapped Ruhm once on the back and did the same. If the raiders got behind the defenders on the wall, they’d bring them down quickly, and then there would be no one to keep the walls from being breached or the gates opened.

  A party of raiders had reached the town square. Most villagers were at one wall or another, so defenders were sparse here, but Hotak and a few others blocked their way. Even Mazzax emerged from Hotak’s shop, holding a maul with a blunt, heavy steel head.

  When Aric joined them, a raider shouted, “You!”

  It was Ceadrin, the elf. “I thought you were dead,” Aric said.

  “No thanks to you that I’m not. He’s the reason we’re here,” Ceadrin told the villagers. “Turn over him and his friends and we’ll leave you be.”

  “It’s too late for that, elf,” Hotak said. “You’ve slain too many of ours, and you’ve been a bother too many times. We’ll end this today.”

  “Very well,” Ceadrin said. “Though you won’t like the ending.” He turned to his fellow raiders. “Kill them all, then we’ll burn this village to the ground.”

  The raiders rushed the villagers. Steel flashed and blood flew, and first one villager died, then another, and a third. Raiders fell too, but more came in from the breached wall. Aric used his iron rod like a sword and a club, striking with it, swinging it, jabbing. Hotak battled with a fine sword he had doubtless made himself. Mazzax wielded his maul with ferocity and determination.

  It began to seem as if they would repel the raiders.

  Until one of them used sorcery.

  3

  Aric should have seen it coming.

  The raiders were fighting the villagers with every weapon at their disposal. Then, as if at a prearranged signal, they drew back. The pretended to be merely catching their breath, and the villagers took advantage of the moment to do the same.

  But one of the raiders was standing back from the others, partially obscured by a wagon parked in the road. He was, Aric realized, performing a spell. As that raider finished a series of wild gestures, Ceadrin tossed a small bundle of sticks toward the defenders. The sticks landed on the ground and the bundle broke apart.

  The scattered sticks transformed into vipers, writhing toward the villagers, venom dripping from long, sharp fangs. Two of the villagers were bit right away. Hotak swung his sword into a serpent, cutting it in half, but the two halves each grew longer, the back half sporting a new, snapping head.

  “This is magic most foul!” he cried.

  The villagers defended themselves against the snakes, no longer paying the raiders any mind.

  Hotak was right, foul magic indeed was at work. The handful of trees and the small patches of grass decorating the square were already drying out, turning black. Dying.

  Mazzax bludgeoned one of the vipers with his maul. This one didn’t come back to life or split into two. But while he was doing so, another one reached him, slithering up his stubby leg. He saw it and screamed. If he used the maul on it, he would cripple himself.

  Aric rushed to the dwarf’s side. His iron rod had no point, but many magical creatures, he’d heard, disliked iron. He thrust an end between the snake and Mazzax’s leg, scooped the snake off him, and then ran forward and hurled the serpent back at the raiders. It landed at one’s foot, sinking its fangs into her, and the woman wailed until the venom had paralyzed and killed her.

  So they weren’t safe from their own vipers. Aric swept up another on his rod and threw it, then one more. Raiders darted away from the snakes. Aric caught one more and, making sure to keep it from climbing up the rod toward him, ran right into their midst. No raider challenged him. Finally, he tossed it at one standing between him and the wagon, then he leapt into the wagon’s bed, and off that, coming down behind the raider who had made the vipers in the first place.

  That raider started to raise his hands, no doubt readying another spell. Aric swung his iron rod at shoulder height. It caught the raider at the jawline. Bone crunched and flesh tore, and when the raider fell to the dusty street, blood from a head nearly severed ran into the dirt.

  “Now,” Aric cried. “Cut them!”

  The villagers with swords did as he said. This time, the vipers died instead of multiplying.

  The last viper to die was the one that bit Hotak.

  Hotak was chopping another in half, and didn’t see the serpent eyeing his exposed calf. By the time Mazzax saw it and shouted a warning, it was too late—the snake had buried its fangs in Hotak’s leg. The big man screamed once, then froze in place and collapsed.

  Mazzax attacked the snake with his maul, not quitting until it was pulverized into the earth.

  The raiders had been turning away, hoping to go around to some other road, but by running through them and leaping into the wagon, Aric had wound up behind those who still stood.

  One of these was Ceadrin.

  “Out of the way, half-elf,” Ceadrin said. Hatred dripped from his voice, the kind of hatred Aric had grown up knowing from full elves.

  “You’ll go through me, or you’ll die here, elf,” Aric replied, trying to put the same sort of bitterness into that last word.

  “Through you, then.” Ceadrin had a long sword with a slight curve to the blade. He took three steps toward Aric and swung it. Aric deflected it with the rod. Ceadrin swung again and again, bringing the sharp blade toward him at every opportunity. Aric defended, but couldn’t find a chance to attack. He was sure his iron rod was dulling Ceadrin’s blade, which would be scant comfort if the blade struck him.

  Sweat coated Aric’s brow, stinging his eyes. He wiped his hands on his shirt, left first, then right, switching the rod as he did. Ceadrin swung again. His sword, with its pommel and guard, was far easier to hang onto. The rod wore blisters in Aric’s hand, and his palm cramped from using it.

  Aric worked his way back toward the wagon. He wasn’t even sure why yet, just had a vague hope that it would provide cover or a chance to jump up, to change h
is elevation, give him some advantage.

  Ceadrin kept up the attack, striking and striking and striking. With each swing parried, Aric felt the vibration all the way up to his shoulder. And still Ceadrin came.

  Finally, the wagon was at Aric’s back. He parried two more swings, but let his weariness show. That was no act; he was growing tired of all this. A gleam showed in Ceadrin’s eye as he sensed his opponent’s weakness. He brought his sword up and down in a slashing arc, straight toward Aric’s head.

  Instead of blocking it, Aric ducked.

  Ceadrin’s sword bit deeply into the wooden side of the wagon.

  It only stuck for a fraction of a second, but that was time enough. Aric came out of his crouch, thrusting with the rod. It caught Ceadrin in the gut, and the elf bent over, air blowing out of him. Aric swung the rod again, first down, smashing it into Ceadrin’s knee and hearing the satisfying sound of the joint popping, then up into Ceadrin’s throat.

  Finally, Ceadrin fell to the ground, and Aric lifted the rod high and drove it straight down, through his heart, pinning the elf to the road.

  The few remaining raiders ran past Aric as fast as they could. The defenders followed, picking raiders off as they went. Only Mazzax stayed with Aric, who was breathing heavily, still leaning on the iron rod that pierced the elf’s chest.

  “He’s dead,” Mazzax said.

  “He had damn well better be.”

  “Not him,” Mazzax said. “Him. Hotak.”

  Aric released the rod and straightened up, although it pained him to do it. “I’m sorry. I never meant for that to happen.”

  “You tried. You slew those who slew him.”

  “I did, at that.”

  “And you saved me.”

  “Likewise true.”

  “You have my thanks, stranger.”

  “Are we still strangers, Mazzax?”

  A broad smile creased the dwarf’s tanned face. “No,” he said. “We’re smiths!”

  4