Ashar'an Rising (Nexus Wars Saga) (46 page)

With another cry, Hammagor started towards Solantholas, just as Solantholas bellowed another cry and charged the Demon Lord. It was a desperate charge, for he knew he could not hope to defeat the demon unless he was able to score a critical hit, so he planned to leap as high as he could to get near its face or throat.

But that was before he saw Hammagor was making for his discarded lance as he charged, obviously meaning to use the piercing weapon rather than the great saber that had returned to the demon’s side. Hastily changing his plan at the new predicament, Solantholas redoubled his efforts as he charged the Demon. As he had hoped, his extra pace allowed him to reach the lance before the Demon, whose arm was outstretched to grasp the slender weapon as it protruded from the ground where the demon had thrust it while wounding Solantholas previously.

A great leap saw him sail through the air with no concern for his safety. Using his new  found sword as a brace, he grasped the hilt and blade to strike across the lance, hoping his leap carried with it enough force to shift the great weapon. Fortunately, the lance had not dug deep into the soft ground, and Solantholas’ momentum allowed him to knock the lance forward.

Right past the groping hand of the demon.

He felt a pain in his left hand but discarded it as he rode the shocking lance as it dipped. Pointed at both ends, its tip dropped sharply to the level of the Demon’s chest as it continued its charge, not recognizing Solantholas’ attack for what it was until the last moment.

Bellowing a furious howl, which turned to one of intense agony, Hammagor impaled himself upon the tip of his own weapon, which flexed and broke after digging a great furrow in the ground. The force of both the Demon’s charge and the shattering weapon threw Solantholas like a doll backwards again. Pain erupted from his side and then his back as he landed. He watched as the great form of Hammagor faltered, staggering to reach him even as its life force receded, and with a grin turned grimace, Solantholas watched as Hammagor stumbled and fell, the tip of its weapon protruding from its back, stained with dark blood.

Trying to rise, Solantholas wondered why his legs would not respond until he looked down to find his torso severely twisted where he had landed. Shards of the dark lance had gouged large wounds out of his side and stomach, a virtual river of blood ebbing from them. The sword he had picked up and used as a brace against the lance had also penetrated his left side, so deep he could have felt it scraping against his spine had he still had feeling. The pain in his upper body was dull though still all  pervading, so he knew without seeing his injuries that he was dying. It was more than a little ironic both he and the Demon Lord had been fatally wounded by their own weapons, but still he could not resist a wan smile at the end result.

With a whispered prayer to whatever gods that might be listening, Solantholas, King of the Elves and Guardian of the Sylvaen, Blademaster and teacher, gave a final piercing cry before the final vestiges of life faded from him, so sharp and clear that all of the Elves still alive heard it, and despite the grim reality the cry brought to them, each gave a smile and knew the day would be won, as the words “For Lloreander!” echoed through the trees.

The
city of Chul’Haka sat lifeless and destitute beneath the burning sun. Dry and warm winds blew dust across the great plains from the south, settling against the northern peaks of the Paradise Ranges. Far beyond these low ranges, but within view on a clear day, the Cliffs of Solace flanked the Bay of Darkness, named for the perpetual darkness that seemed to cover the water, with only the midday sun able to penetrate to the base of the thousand feet high cliffs. Once legend to be the home of many pirates and buccaneers, no sail from near or abroad had entered the perilous straits leading to the bay for many centuries, though only the scant sea  birds or insects would have borne witness to such.

The constant ringing of hammers on steel echoed through the squat city, a stark reminder of the situation the town faced. Even resting as he was inside the modest single  level dwelling assigned to the Dwarven Smiths, Kylaran heard and felt every ringing as he lay staring at the sandstone roof from his hard pallet. With shoulders, back and arms aching from a morning of heavy toiling over the same forges the Dwarves worked still, he was not sure some of the rings were not figments of his imagination to remind him of his morning’s exertions.

Yet even this had not allowed him to divert his thoughts from Alric and the other Dwarves, who late the previous evening had slipped away in their daring attempt to rescue Thorgast. Dearly had he wanted to join them, but he was not blind to the fact neither could he see in the dark as the Dwarves could, thus negating the need for a light, nor was he a warrior, despite his previous melee encounters against the Haruken and Hrolth. Luck and desperation had carried him through, but he could not see this keeping up, which was why, after he rested, he had an appointment with one of the Dwarven Smiths who had agreed to aid him in his axemanship.

Not that he felt much like wielding the bulky axe after the constant rigors of swinging a hammer all morning, but necessity forced him to make the effort. The city could be attacked at any time by the combined forces of the Haruken and Hrolth, and only sufficient training in the martial arts would offer him a small hope of surviving for longer than the first meeting with an armed enemy.

With the extent of the populace overwhelming what scant dwellings there were in the city, their meeting was scheduled in the clearing surrounding the Ancestral Vault, the closest clear area to both the Smithies and the Dwarven quarters. The day was at its hottest, but Kyle wore both long  sleeved shirt and trousers of light cotton. Not unaccustomed to heat, he was nonetheless not immune to the sun’s burning rays. His double  bladed axe hung from the thong at his waist, cumbersome and awkward, but both Alric and Ishaar, the Dwarf who had agreed to work with him, advised him comfort was an essential part of working with the blade.

‘
Know your weapon like you do your own hands,’
were the sage  like words of Ishaar, a young Dwarf by their long  lived standards, but already a Smith of considerable skill and potential, and a talented Warrior.
‘Know its weight and movements as they concur with your own. This will lead to a greater understanding of forces, an Axeman’s forte. An axe is unlike swinging a sword or even a hammer, and it requires great precision to use at its deadliest potential.’

When he reached the Vault, Ishaar was already there, speaking with one of the guardsmen. When he saw Kyle approaching he nodded farewell to the young Urak’Hai. He was dressed in heavy shirt and breeches, seemingly unaffected by the heat that had Kyle’s shirt drenched with sweat, and his steps sluggish.

“
Well met, Kyle. Are you prepared for your lessons?”

Tall for a Dwarf at a hand over five feet, he carried no weapon himself, but a pack upon his back bulged with items that clinked as he walked. He was thickly muscled, though not as barrel chested as some of the other Smiths who were here in Chul’Haka. His shoulders were wide, and his stomach narrow, giving him a statuesque appearance that Kyle figured the female Dwarves might find alluring. His beard was almost golden in color, lighter than his tawny hair, which was thick with curls, and his green eyes were sharp but soft.

Without waiting for Kyle’s reply, Ishaar removed his heavy pack and squatted beside it, rummaging inside and removing several items. One was a thick metal bar, two feet in length and round, obviously taken from the smithy. There were also two chain  mail gloves with padded innards and two curved channels of leather as wide as a finger and joined by two cords. Kyle realized they were covers for his axe  blades even before Ishaar motioned for his axe and began to fasten the device.

“
Better to be safe than sorry,” quipped Ishaar, tossing Kyle back the axe. Kyle found the device made little difference to the weapon’s feel.

After a strenuous warm up, loosening muscles and joints tense from worry and a morning’s labor at the forge, Ishaar had Kyle memorize and practice repeatedly several forms and stances that soon had his arms burning with a dull fire. Being such a bulky weapon, the stances were mostly wide  footed, focusing on position and balance rather than constant movement and dancing about, which was the basis of swordsmanship and most other martial arts. There was also more wristwork than Kyle had expected, designed to help with the manipulation of the weighted weapon.

The iron bar and mailed gloves came into play when Ishaar showed him the variances between shadow  fighting and sparring. As he had Kyle work through his strikes at him, the powerful Dwarf would block each strike to show what forces were exerted upon the heavy weapon during combat. Kyle found it easier, as he often did not have to bring the weapon to a halt through strength, allowing his moves to become faster, though not as fluid.

As the afternoon wore on, and brought with it a gentle breeze to hint at the coming coolness of night, Ishaar and Kyle returned to the Dwarven quarters, where the obvious tension did little for Kyle’s thoughts as he ate in silence and then fitfully dozed on his hard pallet. The disturbing dreams he woke from ebbed at his subconscious, and he lay awake for a time and listened to the faint silence of the sleeping city without, where even a faint dog’s bark sounded alien and eerie, but then sleep reclaimed him.

One of the younger Dwarves, Olric by name, woke him as the faint light of the coming day permeated the eastern horizon, and he rose and changed to prepare for more work at the forges. What soft words passed between the Dwarves were terse and rueful, and it was not difficult for Kyle to realize the Dwarves were not expecting the rescue party to return.

Luckily, the repetitive strain of the smithy and training with Ishaar made it possible for him to block out the nagging fears he held for Thorgast and Alric’s safety. Occasionally he would look to the South  east where the Haruken fortification was, and offer up whispered words of encouragement to Alric and his companions, and although he was not a pious person in any way, he offered up some prayers to Phaeron, father of the Gods, and Karn, Lord of the Earth and Master of Smiths.

Late at night, the second since the rescue party’s departure, Kyle woke again from a nightmare. A cold sweat gripped him beneath the thin sheet as he gasped for breath, the fading vestiges of the tormenting dream sharp in his mind. It had not been a nightmare involving the deaths of Thorgast or Alric or even the other Dwarves and people of Chul’Haka, as he had dreamt several times.

He had stood in a chamber where the tangible walls were of darkness, devoid of doors or windows, and he the only occupant. He was naked, and before him the familiar glow of a forge, where a long sliver of glowing metal was thrust into the unnaturally glowing embers. It looked to be the point of a lance, broken three feet from the point, and even as the dragons  fire forge heated it to extreme temperature, refulgent silver sigils glowed upon the golden metal.

Then a great pounding began to reverberate through the room, first like giant fists striking from without, then like a veritable hail  storm striking its full fury upon a wooden roof, except that the pounding was much more intense, held back only by the unnatural strength of the dark walls. Beneath the barrage, and with a calmness that belied the intensity of the hammering upon the chamber, he reached into the ardent forge and grasped at the strange metal. At first, it appeared as if his hand and forearm glowed from the fiery brilliance of the forge glistening off sweating skin, but as he grasped the metal without the slightest discomfort of heat, he realized his arm was made of metal, a red  tinged Mithril crafted in the likeness of a real limb, yet it felt and acted like one.

The feel of the strange white metal was one of electrical exhilaration through his metallic arm, as if he could feel the power of the item. With a hissing of anticipation it came free of the forge, and he laid it against the hard anvil bench of the forge. He raised his other arm, a natural act as he had many times in his life to shape and define metals, but the hammer he held this time seemed of living energy, a core of power in itself that seemed almost omnipotent, the purest of entities. The hand that grasped it was a normal, human hand without the augmentation of metal or magic, as he put his considerable strength into bringing the ‘hammer’ down against the glowing metal.

Yet even his most powerful of swings did little to bruise the metal as he relentlessly lifted and hammered. The pounding around him was becoming more frenzied, desperate, as were his swings, and he knew then that it was a race as a blade slowly formed in his hand.

‘ 
BOOM!BOOM!BOOM!BOOM! ’

‘
CLANG!’

The crystalline pounding of hammer on metal rang over the constant pounding, with each pump of his mighty arm.

‘
CLANG!”

‘ 
OOM!BOOM!BOOM!BOO ‘

‘
CLANG!’

Without having to look, he knew the dark walls were closing in on him, buckling beneath the supernatural forces without. At first he did not see, though he heard a great rending of the walls around him, then great claw  marks began to appear, tearing the walls to reveal an even greater darkness that seemed to permeate the chamber with fear and malevolence just as the hammer he swung did the opposite.

The blade came to life in his hands, faster than he knew was possible, but invariably too late as he could feel the darkness distort and change the room, spreading its immoral manifestations in the form of illusion, which grabbed at Kyle and assaulted his mind as the pounding continued without the dark chamber. He withstood their fury, however, realizing they could do him no harm. The greater danger still lay without, for the moment.