Blood Of The Wizard (Book 1) Page 8

  In the end, it mattered little. And little of it made any real sense. We only knew that Shiri and the little one, Cullfor, were suffering. But that was exactly what had prompted me to deal with this witchery; I knew I had to do what I could to help him get them back. I had to use every means at my disposal, even if every soul in dwarfdom and mankind thought it folly—for Halvgar’s peace. He was suffering like no one should. I looked over at him. He was feigning sleep, pretending for our sake that he was alright. But the poor soul had not managed any real rest.

  “Thundering hell,” Delthal whispered.

  He and I stood silent above the sleeping shaman.

  Neither of us was moving, and neither was uttering a word. But I could see he was unnerved. Having spent time with the elves, he put more stock in words of the shaman, who had all but said we were doomed.

  “It serves us right, this weight in our guts.” He was speaking in a low voice I had never heard him use. “Jolly damned right, we should have asked nothing of it!”

  He shook his head, knelt down and picked up the dirk, placing it back in the fine walnut box for him.

  He looked out at the water. Then he looked at the small trail back northward.

  My eyes followed his slow, deliberate gaze.

  “This quest is madness,” he whispered. “The madness of the self-murderer. What would you do?”

  Guilt robbed me of the power of speech. I felt my blood freeze with the fear that I might be leading my little fellows to their death. Then there was the faintest fluttering of leaves. And we both glanced fearfully into the gloom of the forest like two assassins that had been caught in the act of something horrible.

  Something stirred.

  I was trying to knock the fear off my own brow, when among the shadows of the pines an open space suddenly revealed itself to be a face. It looked out upon us with gleaming eyes like those of a crouching panther.

  We both leaped back from the thicket.

  “Squeamish fools!” muttered my uncle.

  But at imminent risk to our own lives, we stood erect, defiant against his glare.

  “We had to make sure where she was!” I said, too loudly.

  “Yes, mister, and bind yourself as fear’s prisoner all the way!” Jickie added.

  “Pah! Fear? Fear! What is this thing you call ‘fear’?” Delthal asked, which made my heart lift once again with hope.

  I was learning, I supposes, that there are things that are better left unspoken.

  “Indeed! I wash my hands of even learning what it means!” I said in indignation, and I strode off to my tent.

  At which I heard my uncle laugh.

  “Good, lads!” he thundered. “Most good!”

  * * *

  I heard the Delthal snorting out some kind inarticulate disgust under his breath as he tumbled into his tent next to mine. I tossed to my other side and stared to the last embers of the camp fire, trying to gather myself.

  The courage one gets from the comforts of civilization was rubbing off at an alarming rate. I had known for some time that the worst of cowards easily justify their acts at the time they commit them; but afterwards—oh hell, but afterwards is a different matter. The thing left undone haunts a mind the worst. The uncomfortable reflections of the night kept trooping throughout my mind. How near we had been to regarding it all as hopeless! It was a strangely disgusting feeling, and it set all my flesh cold. Yet I suppose a fellow can grant himself little slack with maddening words like venom and fire getting flung at him.

  Looking out of the tent flaps, I saw my morose friend Halvgar. He was on the other side of the fire, leaning so close to a tree. He was barely visible in the shadows. Thinking himself unseen, he wore such an annoyed, sad expression that it made my heart sink. Before I realized that he just needed some time to himself, I had bounded over the fire and sat with him.

  “Mister Fie,” he said, the formality of it confirming that he did not wish to be disturbed.

  “The shaman saw that they are still alive,” I said.

  I might as well have struck him with all my strength, full in the face. Instead of nodding at me as he normally would, he broke into wolfish howls of crying.

  That sound, brought on by hope and sadness, was as sad a noise as I’ve heard. Ever. And I would heard nothing of it had I been in my right mind and left that insufferable shaman alone.

  Now, it would ring forever in my ears.

  “Hulloo! What’s wrong out there?” bawled Mighty Kenzo’s voice from the tent.

  “Nothing—false alarm!” I called.

  “Then keep a stiffer hand on your alarms, Mister Fie!”

  “Aye.”

  “Damn right, aye Or I’ll step all over your head.”

  At that, I clapped Halvgar’s shoulder and retired for the night.

  * * *

  Rising with the first streaks of dawn, I was surprised that my thoughts were clearer. The rabble were gone. The river was down to a minor roar. And as our vessel was reloaded, I was anxious to get going.

  Strange, what a good night’s sleep can do.

  But scarcely had I thought this than Delthal leaped into the air like a wounded rabbit. An arrow whizzed past my face and glanced within a hair’s breadth of Gilli’s head. Both fellows were dumb with amazement. Such treachery would have been surprising among the barbarous elvish tribes further south. But there were no hostiles within a hundred miles of us.

  Suddenly, Frobhur tore ahead of all of us, getting to the shields. Delthal kept by my side as we set off at a hard run behind the rest of our warparty. That shaman, I fancied, had been possessed by demons at some time in the night and was now acting on their wits instead of his. But whether it was the shaman or one of his elvish companions, I had no idea.

  As I ran, I peered out in the undergrowth. I saw only the foliage as it bent and rose. Then I tripped, crunching my toes into a fallen log.

  That fall saved my life. A flat spear point hissed through the air above my head and stuck fast in the bark of an elm. Scrambling up, I gathered my bow to let go two or three shots into the cedar brake.

  Then all fell silent again.

  We scrutinized the underbrush, but there was no sign of anyone, except the cedars that had absorbed my shots. I wrenched the stone spear-head from the tree. It was curiously ornamented with such a multitude of intricate carvings that I could not decipher whether it was elvish or dwarven. Perhaps, I thought, it could even be human. Then I discovered that the medley of colors was produced by inlaying the flint with small bits of a bright stone. The bright stones had been carved into a rude likeness of some birds.

  “What are these birds, Delthal?” I asked.

  He fingered them closely. “Eagles.”

  “And the stone?”

  “Agate.”

  Agate… the word called a picture to my mind of his big she-elf with malicious eyes and a girdle of agates.

  “Damn warmaids!” Gilli shouted, not suppressing his anger. “To the frozen depths of hell with you stubborn whores!”

  Of course then I knew for whom those missiles had been intended—and from whom they had come. I must admit, it was a clever piece of rascality. Had the assassin maids succeeded, punishment would have fallen on the elves.

  Chapter 16

  Rowing swiftly, beyond the reach of the warmaids at last, the fascinations of the wild once again beckoned like a siren. Vast woodlands, where a dozen castles could be dropped without any hope of finding them, seemed to sweep on forever to the very ends of the earth. With the purple recesses of the hills on one side and the oceanic expanse of the forest on the other, all the charms of clean, fresh freedom were quickening my blood with a strange and fevered delight, which the old lands to the north and east are pleased to call the “southern madness”.

  Indeed, this was about as far south in Yrkland as I had ever traveled, though I had once lived more southerly still, over in Delmark.

  When southerners talk of Northern Madness or northerners speak of Southern
Madness, they swear by a real change in the mind, not just a change in the attitudes. And I feared they were right. But if they were, it was as delightful a madness as I have ever known. The river, with its greenish waters, flowed placidly beneath our vessel. For two days we went without so much as a hint of another soul existing on Earth. We hugged close to the numerous rocky shores to our left, which stood guard like a wall of adamant between us and the heavy winds of a quickly approaching spring.

  When at last we passed a north-bound vessel, with dwarves clad in chainmail armor, I judged rightly that we were once again near the habitation of a town.

  We arrived at a trading post and fort called Foxwash at sundown. Situated on the riverbank was a typical Dwarvish stronghold. Wooden palisades, twenty feet high, ran round the whole town and the inner court enclosed at least two hundred square yards. Heavily built blockhouses with spears and lances poking through arrow slits gave a military air to the trading post. The blockhouses were apparently to repel attack from the rear and the face of the fort commanded the river.

  A banner with a wyrm was flying above the courtyard.

  “Is that in our honor?” I joked up to Mighty Kenzo as we approached. He had asked to be at the lead of our party for a while.

  “Not much is,” he laughed. “We Cutters aren’t oppressed with the weight of honors! In truth, I think it warns the elves away. Or it used to. Like the statue back in Beergarden, which Gilli thought was thirsty for his piss!”

  I had no idea what he meant by that, nor did I ask. But speaking of thirst, I knew I could go for a flagon or two of beer, and maybe something hot on my stomach. And I suddenly realized as far as we were concerned the past week had been entirely composed of work days.

  “Is this a feast day by any chance?”

  “Out of your reckoning already, sir?” Uncle Jickie asked. “By thunder, lad. Wonder how you’d feel if you’d had a year of it!”

  By which I took that he himself had no idea.

  Fatigued from the trip, I took little notice of the enthusiastic interchange of news and greetings as guards docked the Feisty-Goat. We were led by stout Dwarven guards into the gate. Stores, halls, warehouses and living apartments for an army of clerks, were banked against the inside walls, and the main building, with its spacious assembly room, stood conspicuously in the center of the enclosure. As we entered the courtyard, one of the chief traders was a young dwarf, perched on a mortar in the gate. The little magnate condescended mere grunts of welcome. That is, till Mighty Kenzo came up.

  “I say,” blurted out the young clerk. “Now here’s a dwarf of renown! Uncle Kenzo!”

  “Oh! Ha! Hang my balls on the mantle if it’s not the young light-head that thought my neighbor’s cat wanted to play with my rabbits!”

  The bearded youth flushed at the sally of laughter.

  “Don’t listen to the growls of gruff old mastiffs. He got a pretty daughter and a perfect wife out of that affair!”

  “Hold it at that, Master Tilli! We Cutters don’t put treasures on display in the store front like you mongers!”

  All the fellows, even his fellow sellers, laughed.

  “No,” broke in the Tilli, “but there is no law against looking at a pretty bit of memory when it comes calling out in this wilderness.”

  To which, every dwarf in the crowd said a hearty, “Here! Here!”

  I laughed a bit then shook wrists with Tilli before I walked off to stretch myself full length on a bench. The dwarves began to disperse back to their vending stalls. The early twilight, unique to spring evenings, was gathering in the courtyard. As the cool wind from the red western sky sighed past, I felt the caress of warm May air on my face and my mind was sent, not any particular memory, but to the innocent days of my youth in Delmark. How far away those days seemed. Yet it was not so long ago. Surely it is experience, not time, that ages a body.

  I gazed high above the sloping roofs for some sign of moon or star. The sky was dark and overcast.

  Without lowering my eyes, I stood.

  Then I reached out beside me to keep my balance, fearing I might faint. My breath was gone. What I saw framed in a window of early stars, dropping from high in the sky straight towards us, was a living nightmare.

  It was a dragon.

  “The thunderwyrm,” I whispered airlessly, running back through the gates to the courtyard.

  The face was shining with blood and the brows were black and arched over eyes that glowed bright ginger; the very pose of the head was evil, like a viper about to strike, and atop the head was a suggestion of archery, too—the devil’s archery, arrow-like spikes that writhed, fanning down its cascading back. The upper lip was drawing back, revealing the enormous shards it had for teeth. They looked like demons’ dirks, and behind that fearsome mouth was a terrible mass of a body. It was hideous, a wriggling visage of black, a shivering blue-veined hell on earth with the glow of fire visible in its throat.

  “Thunderwyrm!” I roared

  A bloom of living fire appeared in the cheeks.

  Activity exploded all around me.

  Why can’t I move?

  A loathsome, formidable roar resounded, telling all who would know that it not only rode ahead of storms, it could imitate the very thunder it used to propel itself.

  “Hells depths, Fie!” bellowed a deep voice in my ear. “Run!”

  When I looked around, I had no idea who had said it—all I saw was the enormous head of the beast lunging down into the courtyard, zipping toward me with terrifying speed. Spears were launching everywhere from the window slits, and people were roaring old dwarven war cries and prayers. Yet it came. The head remained low, a pair of luminous sinful eyes beading in on me. As I finally found my legs enough to run, I grabbed a spear and used it as a fulcrum to dive, dizzy from the heat of its blasting breath, behind a stack of mead barrels

  “Agh! Thundering hell!” I screamed.

  “Stay down!” bellowed several voices.

  Then the turning head of the beast suddenly drew up into the darkening night, and a massive pair of wings fluttered like twin sails. Its entire heft rose, and the wind ripped shutters of the windows with a huge bang. Its tail was still trailing behind. It must have been over a hundred feet long.

  I leapt from behind the barrels, still shaking.

  As it sailed higher and higher into the far southern sky, the tremendous activity around me ceased, and a small army of dwarves stood silently, without moving, staring up at the beast.

  Every nook in the fort fell silent, then exploded again with activity.

  Dwarves were rushing half-dressed towards me, shouting questions. For a moment, I still stared into the sky, shaking.

  It was only then that I noticed the spear I used to launch myself. Blackish pearls of blood snaked down its curved head, so fresh that for a brief flash I thought I saw steam rising from it.

  In the next instant, I was surrounded by shaggy, ragged-looking rabble. There were Cutters from mountains, Cutters with long white hair, Cutters with beards like waterfalls of hair, Cutters half-dressed or dressed in ancient armor, or some gorgeous longshirt like lords of Delmark—in all, there wasn’t one manner of dwarf known that didn’t surround me at that instant.

  “By thunder, mister man-friend! I’ve never seen a soul stand his ground against such a menace!”

  “I saw him nearly take the beast’s head!”

  “Powers above!”

  “Bravery as from the tales of old!”

  “Frozen hell, human! I’ve seen ballocks like before, but they hung from ’neath a bull!”

  “What a heart! What a heart!”

  I had no idea how to stop the torrent of false compliments, and I justified the silence on my lips by telling myself that even the stoutest of hearts need something to celebrate every now and again.

  “What is your name, human?”

  “Fie,” I told the onlookers.

  “How old are you?”

  Uncle Jickie and the rest of my warparty were
gathered nearby now.

  “I was in the middle of my twenties thirty when I got here. But by damn I just got scared straight to seventy!”

  Every one of looked at each other, silent as snow in the cedars.

  Someone sniffed.

  Then a raucous wildfire of laughter erupted, spreading among the spectators so rapidly that even my Uncle Jickie put his hands on his knees and nearly fell over chuckling.

  * * *

  Spectators were lining each side of the path of the banquet that was to be held in my honor. There was a sad side to the clamorous welcomes and handshakes and surprised recognitions, of course. Had not these dwarves seen me shaking, full of heart-freezing fear?

  Now, with hard-working dwarves offering up belongings to help in our quest and, worse, their stores of food for this banquet, I had a harder time dealing with my lies by omission. Now and then, strong dwarves would fall in my arms, and we would embrace like maids, and they would tell me with covered emotion of someone they had lost to the fearsome dragon.

  All night, the confusion of false compliments continued. The dull tread of booted feet as elves and dwarves carried pack after pack of beer and supplies to riverbank for us to choose from on our adventure.

  Meanwhile, in the main hall, the village Master, an old dwarf named Bori, made a motion for me with his wrinkled little hand. All around us, dwarves lowered their voices, and as my party passed along that room toward him, I knew that my fiery uncle was pleased. His determined look was begging me now not to spoil the revelry of the night.

  “Are ye Fie Wyrmkiller?” Bori asked as beer was poured.

  I looked at my uncle, and my uncle nodded.

  “That is my name, Master Bori.”

  “Then buckle on y’r armor, lad, for ye’ll see the thick of a fight when you arrive at its lair,” said the old dwarf, holding his chuckling belly.