Resurgent Shadows (Successive Harmony Book 1) (31 page)

For the first time the creature showed signs of physical pain. It screamed as the flames and pitch burned into its face, an unearthly wail that pierced the night and tore at the soul with claws of ice. Eric dug the torch into the creature’s eye and pounded it home with a heavy blow from Valundnir. The half dozen dvergers on top of it scrambled to get free as it writhed in apparent agony, flames licking up its crushed face. A dverger ran forward and tossed a glass bottle of liquid onto the undead beast. When it shattered and the liquid hit the flames, the creature was consumed in a massive fireball. The creature lay still in the center of the inferno, mouth open in a silent scream of agony. Eric spun Valundnir around behind his back and heaved it forward with all his strength, sending the hammer end over end through the air. It struck the creature in the chest and blasted through it, leaving behind a ragged, burnt out husk that rapidly fell to dust.

The other creature, as if sensing the demise of its companion, grew frenzied in its attacks, though its arms and face has been reduced to tattered ribbons of flesh from Waelin’s repeated blows. Waelin himself lay unmoving on the ground, a half a dozen other dvergers holding the creature back with a mixture of torches and steel.

Suddenly, Torsten appeared, his stark white robes seeming to glow in the darkness. A round metal amulet burned gold on his chest and Eric was overcome by the power that was radiating from the cleric. Torsten’s face was a mask of complete hatred and revulsion and his voice boomed out in revered prayers to his God. The dvergers around him fell back as the cleric walked steadily forward, his hands outstretched before him with a golden ball of pure flame dancing upon each palm.

If the first creature had been fearful of the flames, the remaining beast reacted with pure terror as it felt the cleric approach. Its head, dripping blood from a dozen open wounds, turned to gaze at the towering figure, the harbinger of its destruction. It took a step backwards as if to flee, but Torsten stopped it with a word.

“Hold!” he commanded in a voice that rolled like thunder. “By Atelho’s might you shall not leave this place tonight. Begone you undead beast. Draugrsál are not meant to walk amongst the living!”

The fires on Torsten’s palms brightened and golden light shot from them in uneven beams, crackling like lightning as it streaked through the air and struck the creature in the chest, burning holes as wide as Eric’s fist through flesh and bone. The wounds smoked and caught fire, and the undead monster shrieked its otherworldly call as golden flames consumed it. Within moments all that remained of the embodied nightmare was a pile of ash that was being blown away by the dry night breeze. Torsten’s magical flame went out, the amulet on his chest fading back to the cool white metal that blended into his robes.

Eric looked around and took stock of the situation. Half a dozen dvergers lay bleeding on the ground, both armor and bone broken. Eric saw shields that had literally been torn asunder, evidence of the horror’s alien strength. A dozen more dvergers were wounded and bleeding, only their stubborn dverger constitutions keeping them sane and on their feet in the face of what had just occurred. Pedryn’s arms looked like they’d passed through a meat grinder, but he stumbled forward past Eric and dropped to the ground next to one of the broken forms on the ground.

Eric walked over, dragging Valundnir along the ground behind him, lacking the energy to replace the weapon at his belt. The hammer surged feebly in his hands, giving him only a momentary addition of energy and strength.

Waelin’s face was a pulpy mass of bruised and battered flesh. One of his eyes was missing. Eric felt a surge of anger and got an answering surge of energy and strength from Valundnir as he looked down at the rest of Waelin’s broken body. His arms and ribs were crushed, as if he had been lodged under an enormous boulder. From the bruising, it was clear that the creature had embraced him and literally squeezed the life from his frame. Even in death Waelin still clutched his axe tightly in one hand. Pedryn reached out with uncharacteristic tenderness and crossed Waelin’s arms over his broken chest, gently removing the axe from his hand and placing it across his lap.

“Be at peace, my son,” Pedryn said in a whisper. “You have fought the good fight. Rest in the arms of Atelho. May your voyage to the eternal rest in Úndin’s halls be swift and free of strife.”

Eric felt his rage building as a single tear ran down Pedryn’s cheek, following the course of the crags and contours of the dverger’s weathered face. He had not known that Waelin was Pedryn’s son. He thought of his own unborn child, and the pain he’d feel if his child had been taken from him. His anger and rage built until he shook from the effort of trying to hold it in. He felt a hand on his shoulder and whirled about, almost bringing Valundnir to bear, but stopped himself at the last moment upon seeing Torsten’s beleaguered face. His rage dissipated somewhat at the cleric’s look, but it festered in the back of Eric’s mind.

“Are you all right, Guerreiro?” Torsten asked. His voice cut through Eric’s fevered mind as it had during the Holmganga. “Did they injure you at all?”

Eric shook his head.

“Are you sure? Even the smallest nick from a Draugrsál’s blade can prove lethal.”

Eric again shook his head, but Torsten looked him over anyway.

“I didn’t know Waelin was Pedryn’s son,” Eric muttered.

“Most of the families stayed to the north of us, in one of our strongholds. Pedryn and his son decided to come with the armies instead of staying behind with their wives and mothers,” Torsten said in a heavy voice. “Now one of them will be remembered only as part of our honored dead.”

The cleric looked weary, as if the effort of slaying the beast had cost him a great deal. His eyes drooped with sadness and pain as he turned to the next dverger after assuring that Eric was all right.

“What were those things, Torsten?” Varin asked, his voice shaking slightly as the cleric healed his wounds.

“Draugrsál,” Torsten replied in a pained voice. “The Soulless Dead. They are creatures for whom the afterlife was a place to be feared and from which they hoped to escape. They give up their eternal souls to Sayrin in exchange for everlasting life as his servants, sworn to do his bidding until the end of time.”

“But they look like dvergers!” one of the dvergers said aghast.

“You think that only men hold evil in their hearts?” Torsten snapped. “Do you think that because we are dvergers we are above fear, envy, greed, or pride? You are a fool! Don’t let the Father of Lies have a place in your hearts through your stubborn arrogance!” The dverger bowed his head in chagrin and Torsten immediately seemed to regret his words.

“Forgive my harsh tone. We have been through much tonight and it is not yet over.”

“What do you mean?” Eric asked instantly, Valundnir suddenly thrumming in his hands, giving fuel to the rage that was growing within him yet again.

“Can’t you hear the sounds of battle?” Torsten said with an arched eyebrow. “There are more of them here! Haven’t you been listening? These are Sayrin’s assassins! There will be a pair attacking every clan chief, and only magic or fire can kill them!”

It was as if the cleric’s words had flipped a switch in Eric’s mind as the sounds of fighting and the blaring of horns suddenly assaulted his ears.

Torsten stepped in close to Eric, tilting his head upward so that only Eric could hear his whispered command. “Lead them.”

Power reared up from within Eric’s body. His whole being ached with it, commanding him to act. With a roar Eric charged off into the night, following the sounds of pitched battle and the unearthly wails of the Draugrsál.

Eric never remembered much from that night, though he knew that he battled many of the undead beasts. Pedryn, Torsten, and some others followed in his wake, torching the bodies of the Draugrsál as Eric smashed them to the ground in his anger. Valundnir fueled his rage and he fought on, pounding away at undead, bloated flesh until there was nothing left to fight, the last Draugrsál smoldering in ashes at his feet. It wasn’t until the first morning rays cut long streaks of red and gray across the sky and Valundnir rested once more at Eric’s belt that he looked out at the devastation and death that had been visited upon the dverger army.

The bodies of the slain numbered well into the hundreds. Torsten ran around with what healers there were amongst the dvergers, doing what he could in the wake of the terrible event. Pedryn and the few dvergers from Eric’s squad that still remained stayed close to their leader, slumped over their weaponry or resting upon their shields whenever they had a free moment.

Of the nine clan chiefs, four were dead. They found King Olan later that morning, his body stiff and blackened from the poisoned dagger that had been buried in his chest. Torsten removed the dagger gingerly from the wound and wrapped it in white cloth torn from his robes. The cleric was disheveled and his clothing stained in streaks of blood and ash.

“What now, Torsten?” Varin said in despair, his face a gray mask.

Torsten looked up from where he was tending the dead monarch’s body; as he did so the faint sound of drums could be heard, carried down from the valley on the wind. There was a moment of stunned silence at the portents behind the sound before Torsten replied with a sidelong look at Eric.

“Now we go to war.”

Nepja leaned forward as he spoke, using his staff for support. His green eyes flashed from the shadowy depths of his hood, highlighting the passion with which he lectured.

Caleb forced himself to pay attention, though his mind was still weary, with internal struggles.

“What you must realize is that the ideas you know as good and evil are merely two halves of a great circle, constantly striving against one another in an endless battle of titanic balance. Each has a purpose and a place in the universe. One without the other would mean the end of our existence. That is the way of it. These two forces, both positive and negative, must be in balance. Chaos cannot overpower Order and Order cannot undo Chaos.”

“Úndin and Sayrin, you mean,” Sigvid interrupted, drawing an angry glare from the wizard.

“You feeble-minded fools personify these forces as such. They are but idealized images of a greater understanding, simplified into a religion for the weak and uneducated. There is an opposition in all things. Every act that you call evil in this world has a purpose, a meaning. Every act of charity and compassion has a price to pay in balancing it with a negative force. What the Dragonlord is suggesting is to upset that balance and let Chaos into the world directly, destroying all life as we know it.”

“You speak of Chaos as if it was a living thing and yet you say it is not Sayrin, the God of Evil.” Sigvid argued.

Many of the men in the room grumbled agreement.

“What riddle is this?”

“Chaos is Sayrin and Sayrin is Chaos,” Nepja responded, his voice impatient and snappy. “And yet Chaos is not Sayrin and Sayrin is not Chaos. Order and Chaos are life itself, playing a great game to achieve domination. They act through us to maintain their power and balance one another’s gains. It is the calling of the Highwizard of the Order of the Nine Towers to keep the balance, seeking those who Order and Chaos have chosen and placing them on the paths that lead to the ultimate balance of power upon which the universe survives. Since this joining of worlds, balance has been disrupted. Chaos must not be allowed to dominate this world, for if it does, all life, everywhere, will cease to exist.”

Caleb looked at the faces of those around him, seeing their skepticism and confusion mirror his own. Mentally, Caleb could not fathom the depths of what Nepja was suggesting, but deep in his chest he felt peace and a reassuring comfort that what the wizard was saying rang true. The feeling calmed his troubled mind and alleviated the sorrow, guilt, and self-loathing that had threatened to overwhelm him. The Dragonlords were the key and somehow, Caleb knew, Nepja’s explanations would lead to them.

“What would you have us do, Nepja?” he asked. The wizard looked up at him and smiled humorlessly.

Caleb stared back, unyielding, despite the cold shiver that ran down his back as he held Nepja’s gaze.

“We must capture the Dragonlord Jarome and find out what he and this Loran plan.”

The room erupted into angry yells at the declaration, shouting from everywhere at once so that it was impossible to tell what was being said. Lando, at Nepja’s side, frowned despondently but retained his silence. Caleb ran a hand though his hair and down the back of his neck. Apparently the soldiers didn’t trust Nepja as much as they’d appeared to.

Finally, a single voice cut through the others.

“This is complete madness!” Rothvar bellowed. “The red dragon will kill us all before we can even get close to the Dragonlord. I will not let me or mine become victims of your sorcerer’s ways!” The ancient dverger had been amongst those they had freed, along with his son Bothvar. Caleb had noticed them only vaguely upon entering the room, but they were the only representatives of the dvergers there other than Sigvid.

“It is not your decision to speak for the dvergers,” Sigvid shouted back vehemently. “Under the laws of the Enclave, Caleb speaks with the voice of the dvergers! As Guerreiro, he is the highest ranked authority amongst us now.”

Caleb registered Sigvid’s words with a slight note of panic. He had no desire to lead, nor had Sigvid informed him of the sudden responsibility. People tended to get killed around him. He did not want to be responsible for any more lost lives. He could see the distrust in the eyes of the men and dvergers around him. They thanked him for saving their lives from Thomas’s crazed attacks, but they also feared him for it.

“You’re not serious, Sigvid.” Rothvar pounded a fist into the table and gesticulated wildly with his other hand. “This human child does not speak for me, nor does he speak for the dvergers. And what Enclave? There are less than a score of us left!”

Sigvid reared up to his not so incredible height and Caleb was struck by the majesty and regal bearing that came over his stocky friend. The others in the room, including Nepja, remained silent as the dvergers squared off in their jostling for power. Caleb realized that part of it was also a question of trust. Someone had betrayed the Enclave and let the golgent and wyrms in. He had no doubt that each suspected the other of being that traitor.

“I have named him Guerreiro, and Faeranir stands testament to its truth. Atelho has spoken his acceptance; have you so little honor left that you will question the will of our God?” Sigvid’s voice was soft, but it bore the weight of unconscious authority and a veiled threat.

Rothvar’s eyes narrowed and it was apparent that he recognized the threat and the suspicion in Sigvid’s words. Bothvar angrily opened his mouth to speak, but Rothvar held up a wrinkled hand and he quieted.

“I do not question Atelho’s word, Ferreiro.” Rothvar put a strange emphasis on the title, as if Sigvid had used an authority that was not his to use. “Only the title. A human cannot be a Guerreiro any more than a golgent can be a dverger.”

Sigvid’s eyes flashed and he took a step forward. Rothvar remained where he stood, but Bothvar took a half a step backwards.

“You are not a clan chief. You are only part of the Governing Council in the Enclave. I am the Ferreiro! You will follow me should I ask it of you and I follow where Caleb leads.”

Rothvar’s face hardened, but he said nothing. Sigvid took the ancient dverger’s silence for acceptance and turned back to Nepja with an angry grunt, not meeting Caleb’s eye. Caleb longed for more details, but he knew it was neither the time nor place for such a discussion. He would discuss it with Sigvid later. There was much he wanted to talk over with the pragmatic dverger. He hoped that Sigvid was not seriously asking him to lead the dverger people.

“That is all well and good dverger,” one of the men in the room interjected, “but we will not be a part of this! This is ludicrous! I’ll not waste the lives of my men on a suicide run on the word of this wizard.”

“You will go because you must.” Nepja’s voice was icy, almost crackling with contempt and suppressed irritation.

“I will not,” Marc protested, ignoring the warning looks Lando and some of the other men shot in his direction. “Those tunnels will be crawling with golgent and their ilk. We’ve seen the other dragons searching for us from the skies. It would be suicide!”

“You will not be in the tunnels,” Nepja hissed, his eyes flashing.

“What is your plan, wizard?” Sigvid asked, glancing once at Caleb, who shrugged.

Images from his dreams kept flashing through his mind, distracting him from the current conversation. His mind fixated on the parts of the dreams from his own history, struggling to piece together the clues that he was sure were there. Somehow all the dreams he had experienced, even the one of his wife’s beckoning call, were somehow linked and the Dragonlords were the key to that understanding.

“The tactics are simple. Caleb, Sigvid, Lando, and I will sneak back through the tunnels to the Dragonlord’s Lair. I will keep the dragon at bay while Caleb, Sigvid, and Lando capture the Dragonlord. The rest of you will not be in the tunnels. We’ll need you on the surface, distracting the remnants of the Dragonhosts left here and the three other dragons. They will sense my magic once I begin, but by then it won’t matter. All we need is a distraction from the rest of you. Then you are free to go about whatever miserable lives that fate has meted out for you.” Nepja’s voice betrayed his scorn and derision for the men and dvergers with whom he spoke, a fact not lost on them.

“How dare you condescend to us!” Rothvar barked over the protests of the others. “We’re not fodder to be fed to the wolves!”

“Why don’t you just blow something up?” a soft voice asked.

It took Caleb a moment to realize the speaker was Lando. Those who knew the boy immediately quieted in a mixture of surprise and awe. Caleb blinked and the images in his mind faded.

Lando shuffled his feet sheepishly and shrugged. “I just thought it would be an easier way to distract the Dragonhosts than getting in a fight.”

One of the men laughed and a few others joined in.

“It is at that,” Marc said as the laughter quieted. “And we have enough C4 and grenades to level a skyscraper. We can send the women, children, and the aged to hide in the hills along with some men and leave a small party behind to blow the building and provide cover. Well done, Lando.”

Lando shrugged again and said nothing, though he smiled at the compliment. Caleb studied the boy, his own thoughts distracted and distant once more. The boy was obviously healing from whatever it was that had turned him inward. Caleb was not so sure it was a good thing.

“How long will it take you to get ready?” Nepja asked insistently.

“A few hours,” Marc answered curtly. “Long enough to gather supplies and organize the men.”

“Where will you go?” Caleb asked. An image of the woman he had saved and her infant son flickered in his mind’s eye and then vanished.

Marc looked at him and said almost guardedly, “North.”

“And the dvergers? After they have made sure the decoy works?” Sigvid asked, including both Rothvar and Caleb in his question.

Caleb didn’t answer.

Rothvar grimaced through his bushy white beard. “We will stay here and reclaim our Enclave if it is the last thing that we do.”

Sigvid once again looked at Caleb, who shrugged. He didn’t care what the dverger did afterwards. Rothvar scowled, but took Caleb’s shrug as acceptance.

“So be it,” Nepja interrupted with a note of irritation. “Now to work! There is much to do and time runs apace!”

Marc rolled his eyes, and Rothvar and Bothvar grumbled under their breath, but they drifted apart, exiting the room in small groups to make ready for the coming exodus. Nepja turned to Lando and drew him to a far corner of the room where they sat conversing softly. The youth looking very much at ease in the strange wizard’s presence. Caleb remained where he stood, gazing off into the distance. The images had begun to replay themselves in his mind.

“Are you all right, boy?” Sigvid asked kindly, his voice in stark contrast to the anger it had held previously.

Caleb looked down at his stocky friend and considered the question. How could he tell the dverger everything that was going through his thoughts? How did someone tell a friend that they thought they were losing their own mind? How was he going to explain the hallucinations and images that flashed through his mind or explain the pressing need he felt to find a Dragonlord and wring from him the answers that he sought? Sigvid would not understand that, but he would understand the guilt Caleb felt at Thomas’s death.

“I’m just struggling with what happened,” Caleb said quietly. “I can feel the others judging me for what I did. They’re grateful I saved their lives, but they fear me for it too.” It was only a portion of the truth, but it appeased Sigvid.

“Bah,” the dverger said with a hearty slap to Caleb’s back. “You did what was right. Just think of that wee babe you held and you’ll know that. Let these fools think what they will. They owe you their lives. We all do.”

Caleb shrugged and tried to look like he was focusing, though in truth he found it difficult. He absently put a hand on Faeranir’s cool metal limb on his shoulder and he felt his stress noticeably lessen and his mind clear. An image of the woman he’d saved and her infant son flashed through his mind and he suddenly realized that he would most likely never see them again after today.

Another thought crossed his mind just as quickly.

“Will you be staying here with the rest of the dvergers?” he asked Sigvid in a neutral voice.

Sigvid smiled ruefully and shook his head. “They can go boil their own heads trying to retake the Enclave. I won’t throw away my life on a quest doomed to failure.”

Caleb smiled at the irony and chuckled. “Most people would consider taking on a Dragonlord just as foolish, I’m thinking.”

“Most would, yes,” Sigvid agreed.

Caleb smiled and decided that he wanted to say goodbye to the woman he’d saved before they left. He felt a special attachment to the woman and the small baby who had shown him such kindness in his moment of need. Besides, he didn’t even know her name yet.

“I have some things I need to take care of before we go, Sigvid.” He turned to leave. “I’ll meet you in the basement in an hour.”

Sigvid nodded and walked off to talk with Nepja and Lando, who ceased their conversation immediately at his approach.

Caleb found the small young woman on the main floor, busy packing the meager supplies she had scrounged into a cloth bundle she could carry over one shoulder. Her baby lay sleeping in a bundle of clean cloth near her. She had changed clothes and had washed away the layers of dirt and grime that had covered her face. Her black hair glistened against her pale skin as she bent over to check on her son.