He tried to picture Simone. He tried to smell her, that subtle scent of fresh roses. He tried to feel her soft skin and her hands on his face and hear her voice—her gentle voice that could soften any man’s heart. He tried to taste her honeyed lips. He couldn’t. They were so long ago, so far away.
“Are you alright?” one of the dwarvish armorers asked in his own language.
Erik, for a moment, was surprised he understood the dwarf. He nodded. He didn’t know how long he had stood there, eyes shut, thinking of home. Even Wrothgard was gone now.
The dwarf nodded back with a quick smile.
“Will I ever be who I once was?” Erik asked as he stared out the front of the armory. He squinted. “Do I want to be?”
Chapter 46
“ARE YOU HAPPY TO BE leaving,Thorakest?” King Skella asked as Erik passed through the throne room.
The voice startled Erik. He’d walked this way countless times as a shortcut to his quarters and had never seen the King sitting there alone.
“I . . . I suppose,” Erik he replied, getting over the surprise. “I don’t know, really, Your Majesty.”
“Have you felt like a prisoner, here in my city?” the King asked.
“No,” Erik said, and realized it was a quick response.
“Good,” King Skella said. “That wasn’t my intention. I realize I have put you and your companions in a very precarious situation. That wasn’t my intention either.”
Erik didn’t understand why the King was explaining himself. Certainly, it wasn’t necessary. After all, a King could do as he wished.
“Things happen for a reason, Your Majesty,” he said as he shrugged.
“Yes, I suppose they do,” King Skella said, rubbing his eyes with thumb and forefinger.
“Are you alright, Your Majesty?” Erik asked.
“Just tired, young Eleodum,” King Skella replied. “My wife is not well. It keeps me up at night. And, to be honest, this situation with your map has been a worry as well.”
“I am sorry to hear about the Queen,” Erik said.
“Thank you,” the King replied.
“And thank you,” Erik said, “for allowing us access to your armory. That was a most generous gift.”
“It was nothing. The least I could do,” the King said with a smile and a dismissive wave of his hand.
“May I return to my quarters, Your Majesty?” Erik asked.
“Yes, of course,” the King said.
Erik began to walk through the throne room, but then he stopped and turned to the King, who had gone back to rubbing his eyes.
“Your Majesty,” Erik said.
“Yes,” he replied.
“Speaking of getting little sleep,” Erik continued, “I have had trouble sleeping myself lately. I know your surgeon gave my cousin something that helps him sleep—sweet wine he calls it. I was wondering if he might have some for me as well. I find myself tired every morning and less than enthusiastic to go to bed.”
King Skella cocked an eyebrow and sat up straighter.
“My brother also had trouble sleeping,” Erik added, “but it seems he is having the best sleep he has had in months.”
King Skella pensively pursed his lips.
“I will have Tifur, my castellan, send for Enfberg. I am sure he can help you, either with sweet wine or dream milk. One must be careful, though. You can become too dependent on them and may not be able to sleep without them.”
Erik bowed. “Your Majesty is too kind.”
Erik threw himself into his training, his language lessons with Demik, and even lessons on history with the King himself, who willingly sat for hours talking about things that would have driven Switch mad and bored Bryon to death. He reveled in the knowledge—hand to hand combat, fighting, education, culture—and their restrictions within the city had been lifted. They were now allowed to roam freely, with weapons in hand and without guards watching them. But Erik still felt like a prisoner, and he couldn’t wait to leave.
The thought of Vander Bim, since placed in a dwarvish cemetery, weighed heavy on Erik’s mind, as did Drake and Samus and the dreams of his dead parents and tortured sisters. Even if they were no longer captives, he still felt no freer. The fake sun, casting its warmth and light into the cavern with mirrors, became almost mind-numbingly foolish. The way the dwarvish people bustled about their daily lives as if nothing was wrong with the world was infuriating.
“Let me smell the fresh air,” Erik said to himself. “Let me feel the sun on my face.”
Another week came and passed when Erik and his companions were sitting in the small dining room. Erik had met with the King almost daily, but since releasing them from their bondage within the city, he had not met with the whole group and could not understand the reasons for the delay in their departure.
“The King commands your presence,” the guard said, walking into the room and stamping the butt of his spear on the floor.
Erik understood him, but the others hadn’t a clue what he said.
“The King wants us,” Turk interpreted.
“It’s about flaming time,” Switch exclaimed, throwing a chicken bone across the room, downing the contents of his wine glass in one gulp, and slamming that down hard against the table. “The sooner we can get out of this filthy city, the better.”
Demik and Nafer both groaned, but they didn’t say anything. Erik suspected, much to their chagrin, that they actually agreed with the thief.
King Skella wasn’t actually in the room to which they had been summoned. It was small, and Erik suspected away from crowds of nobles and aristocrats, who seemed to grow every time the company gathered, watching them like caged animals.
“We’re a damned spectacle,” Wrothgard had once said.
General Balzarak was there, standing among six other dwarves. They spoke freely, and, from what Erik could understand as he entered the room, it was about anything—small talk. They quieted as they saw the men.
“Where is the King, General?” Wrothgard asked.
One of the dwarves groaned when Wrothgard spoke Westernese.
“Tending to his wife,” Balzarak answered with a quick bow. “She is not well these days.”
“And Thormok and Gôdruk?” Turk asked.
That same dwarf groaned even louder when Turk spoke Westernese.
“Preparing,” was Balzarak’s simple reply.
“Well, you summoned us here,” Switch said, “and here we are.”
General Balzarak bowed again.
“We have been, how do you say, recruiting. These are the warriors who have agreed to travel with us,” Balzarak said.
“This is the retinue?” Wrothgard asked with a hint of disdain.
Another of the dwarves said something in his native language, almost in a whisper, but Erik understood him.
“We were the only ones willing to travel with you,” he said.
“Then the Creator smile on you for that,” Erik replied, also in Dwarvish, without thinking.
The dwarves looked at him with surprise, and a few grumbled angrily until Balzarak put up his hand with the slightest smile.
“These are veteran warriors,” Balzarak said, “and though they be few, each one is worth a retinue of warriors in his own right. Bim, Bofim, Beldar, Mortin, Threhof, and Dwain have all brought honor to their families, their clans, Thorakest, and Drüum Balmdüukr.”
Each dwarf bowed, some deeper than others.
“We leave in two days,” Balzarak said. “We will meet at the main passage in Gröde Handenhall. Prepare your things. This is a treacherous journey. Dwain, lead us in prayer please before we leave.”
Switch grumbled as a dwarf with a beard and hair full of gray stepped forward and bowed his head. Erik understood some of what he said, but then, there were words that sounded completely foreign, and he wondered if it was some heightened Dwarvish language, or maybe an older Dwarvish language.
“Lasz’so Zine,” Dwain finished with.
“Let it b
e so,” Erik repeated quietly.
Chapter 47
ILKEN TAPPED HIS PIPE INTO a simple pewter tray, expelling whatever weed he was smoking, reached into his pocket, rustled around, and retrieved a handful of more, stuffing it into his pipe. It was brown and moist and clung together so that Ilken only had to pinch a bit to grab enough for his pipe.
“Where is Turk?” Erik asked, expecting to see his friend working diligently for the blacksmith.
“I have released him,” Ilken said with a smile, “lest I lose all my business to that young dwarf. He worked so diligently, I found him just twiddling his thumbs half the time. My wife feared I would lose business to him.”
Ilken laughed and then continued, “Nonetheless, I know you are leaving on the morrow. Turk needed time to collect his thoughts . . . and courage.”
Erik took a sip of his sun tea and closed his eyes.
“It’s good,” he said, almost to himself.
“Remind you of something?” Ilken asked.
Erik opened his eyes.
“Home.”
“Good,” Ilken replied.
“Yes,” Erik said. “Very good.”
Suddenly, he felt a knot in his stomach as memories of home flooded his mind—Mother and Father, orange brandy, rose bushes, his sisters . . . Simone.
“I’m a fool,” Erik muttered. “I’m the most foolish man who has ever lived.”
Ilken laughed at that.
“Oh, my young friend, I am afraid there have been plenty of men far more foolish than you. Take Silas, the Durathnan, for instance. He thought he fell in love with an elvish maiden and followed her into the forbidden forests of Ul’Erel. When he got there, he realized that his good looks and manners could not charm his maiden into bed for a night, at which moment he pledged his undying love to her and asked for her hand in marriage. Little did he know an elvish engagement lasted ten years, by which time he was graying and feeling the pains and aches of age. Not to mention, he had been quite unfaithful to his elvish beauty. If he had only realized that, on their wedding night, if he had remained faithful, the magic within that maiden’s lips would have healed all the damage time had caused, but because of his infidelity, her kiss caused instant death.”
“I suppose that taught him a lesson,” suggested Erik, and Ilken laughed before he continued with his next tale.
“Even more foolish was Castor, who ruled the lands that would one day become Gol-Durathna. His people loved him so, for he seemed a most pious man, always giving riches to the poor, housing to the homeless, and power to the weak. An, however, knew his heart, and when he offered Castor anything he wanted, rather than asking for wisdom or a kinder heart, or a just heart, or the strength to do An’s will, he asked for all the riches in the world. An was faithful and honored Castor’s wish by giving him all the riches in the world, most of which belonged to other men. The very next day, an angry mob broke down the door to Castor’s keep and stoned him to death.”
Ilken tugged on his pipe and took a drink of his own cup of tea.
“How about Anish and Nisha, the first beings on our world, the first male and female, who An created and gave all things to?”
“Were they humans, or elves, or dwarves?” Erik asked.
“They were the first,” Ilken replied. “They were all of us and then, none of us. An had given them a vast land, a garden west of Nothgolthane, beyond the Forbidden Hills, between the Namer and Nesher Rivers. It was anything anyone could ever want. They had no need to farm, hunt, fish. The land freely gave to them anything they wanted, and An often walked with them through their garden, talking with them, laughing with them. Can you imagine, the Creator walking with you and talking with you?”
“I don’t think I could,” Erik replied. “I think I would be too afraid.”
“Aye.” Ilken laughed. “Their only command was to never drink the waters from a certain well, the Well of Yada Hu Kock.”
“And so, they drank from the well,” Erik said. He was familiar with this story.
“Aye.” Ilken nodded with a smile. “They did. Perhaps the most foolish thing anyone has ever done. So, you see, in comparison, you are not so foolish.”
“I see,” replied Erik, but he wasn’t sure he was convinced. “Turk said you wanted to see me.”
“I am done.”
Ilken led Erik to his workspace. Lying on the same table on which he once inspected Erik’s dagger and Bryon’s sword was a long, broad blade. The blade itself looked simple, but upon closer inspection, Erik could see wavy patterns through the steel, along either side of the fuller.
“I am quite proud of this blade I have made for you. I don’t know if I’ve ever made something so magnificent. Those markings are from hammering and folding pure steel,” Ilken said. “It makes the steep durable, strong, and flexible.”
The steel was a dull gray, rather than gleaming bright like the fables Erik had heard as a boy of great swords. The cross guard was also simple, slightly sweeping forward and wide enough to protect Erik’s hand. Black leather wrapped the handle, and Erik could see a single undulation in the middle of it.
“You can use both hands,” Ilken explained, “or only one if you wish.”
And the pommel was also simple—round and large to counterbalance the weight of the blade. On one side of the pommel, Erik saw that it was studded with a small ruby, and on the other side, a sapphire. And on the cross guard, he saw a purplish stone—amethyst.
“The ruby stands for courage,” Ilken explained, “and the sapphire for loyalty. These are both traits which I believe you possess. The amethyst is for clear headedness and wittiness, things you will need on your journeys.”
“And these,” Erik said, running his index finger over several runes neatly carved into the blade as it met the cross guard.
“Marks of the maker,” Ilken replied with a deep smile. “They are my name, in Old Dwarvish, and the symbol of my clan, the Raven.” Erik picked up the sword and swung it, using the techniques Wrothgard had taught him. It felt like nothing he had held before.
“It feels like it is a part of me,” Erik said.
“Good,” Ilken replied, “that is the way it is supposed to feel.”
Erik lowered his sword, taking the scabbard that Ilken had made to go with it and sheathing the blade.
“I can’t ever thank you enough,” Erik said.
Ilken put up a hand.
“I did this as a favor to Turk,” Ilken replied, “and to you. I hope this is a sword that you can pass down to your son, and him to his. I hope this is a sword that speaks to the unity of men and dwarves and to the unity of all the peoples of our vast world.”
Erik bowed.
“I only pray that this sword keeps you safe on your journey,” Ilken added. “This is a perilous thing you are doing. It will take more than a well-crafted sword, or training, to keep you alive. These are the moments that test us, Erik Eleodum. These are the moments that try our hearts and minds and souls.”
Erik stayed only a bit longer, talking with Ilken and just reveling in his company and hospitality. When he eventually left, the blacksmith looked almost sad.
“I do hope I see you again,” Ilken said in his native language as Erik left. He didn’t think the dwarf meant for him to hear him, but he did.
“Me too,” Erik whispered.
Chapter 48
ERIK WALKED THROUGH THE CITY, Turk, Wrothgard, and Nafer in front of him, Demik to his side, and Switch, Befel, and Bryon to his rear.
They neared the mayor’s keep. Erik saw Fréden Fréwin and a small entourage of militia and aristocrats standing just outside the building. The mayor eyed them coldly. He muttered to his administrators and followers as they approached him and then looked down and away when Erik made eye contact. Erik saw him give frowning, sidelong glances to the company, and then he thought he heard the mayor growl.
Erik looked over his shoulder, watching as Fréden Fréwin stared at the company, hands clenched, lips flat and curved to a deep
frown.
You had better watch that one. Erik felt a tingle at his hip.
“Oh, so you decide to speak again. I still don’t know if I should trust you,” Erik whispered.
Trust or don’t trust. You know he bodes you ill will. Be on guard for him.
“Who are you talking to?”
Erik saw Befel walking next to him.
“No one,” Erik said. “Just myself.”
“About what?” Befel asked.
“We should be cautious of the mayor,” Erik said. “I don’t trust him.”
“We will never see him again,” Befel said with a slight, condescending chuckle.
“Maybe,” Erik replied. “Nonetheless, he doesn’t like us, and he has agents loyal to him.”
“Who are you, now,” Befel asked, “an expert in political espionage.”
“Joke all you want,” Erik replied. “He is evil, he wishes us harm, and he hates what we are doing.”
“Thormok,” Balzarak said as he and the other dwarvish warriors came into view, waiting at the mouth of a large passage in the Gröde Handenhall.
The General’s first cousin bowed.
“Threhof,” Thormok said, waiting just a moment for the company to gather with them and take a breath.
Another of the escorts—an older dwarf, although, not as old as Dwain—bowed. He wore plate mail like Balzarak and his kin and, after bowing to Thormok, turned and slammed the butt of his spear into the ground three times.
“Dwain is the oldest,” Turk explained to Erik, “but Threhof is the highest ranking, having once served as the captain of the city guard. He will lead us out of Thorakest.”
The dwarves lined up behind Threhof, and once Erik jumped in behind Turk, they were moving.
“Will we travel through underground tunnels the whole way?” Erik asked.
“No,” Turk said with a shake of his head. “There is a giant ravine that separates the northern and southern ranges of the Southern Mountains. It is too deep. We will travel along the surface. This is the main road to the rest of Drüum Balmdüukr. We will take it to another road that will lead us to the surface.”
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