Champions of the Gods (8 page)

The fire of the forge roared. Beads of sweat trickled down Roakore’s brow, stinging his eyes and soaking his clothes. He reveled in the exertion, pounding the steel with his heavy mallet. He gave himself completely to the work, finding that place of focus that only came with the intense love of a craft.

With his mind he pumped the large bellows, causing the fire to burn hotter still. The mallet fell and sparks flew. Roakore dunked the pointed bolt into the water troth, causing it to hiss and steam. He pulled it out and inspected his work. The bolt was made of hardened steel and had been fitted to slide into the arm that he had built.

The contraption was a gift for Helzendar—an arm of steel with working joints that he would be able to control with his mind. The long, thin, pointed bolt clicked into place within the forearm. With but a thought, Helzendar would be able to extend it out through the fist and just as easily retract it.

Satisfied with the results of the forging, Roakore brought the steel arm and many gems and supplies up to his moon tower, just above Silverwind’s perch at the peak of the mountain. He preferred doing his gem work by the light of the full moon, which had a magic all its own.

Roakore laid the steel fist on a raised dais and carefully placed his selected gems there as well. Opening a rolled-up cloth, he took out his small tools and set about the task. He carved ancient runes into the shaft of the forearm, and the hand and fingers as well. He lined them with liquid silver and summoned wind to speed the cooling. When the silver had set, he smoothed the grooves and edges. Diamonds, rubies, and sapphires he placed on the arm as well. He did so sparingly, adding them only to the joints of the wrist, knuckles, and fingers, where a housing had been fashioned.

By the time he had completed his task, the sun was beginning to peer over the distant mountain peaks. Roakore took one last look at his finished work and smiled to himself. He could hardly wait to present it to his son.

Helzendar arrived at his father’s chambers a few minutes late. He had been practicing with his new abilities and had lost track of time.

“Come in, come in,” Roakore said excitedly when Helzendar knocked on the door.

“Sorry I be a little late, Father.”

“Never mind that, come on over here. I’ve got something for you.”

Curious, Helzendar walked over to his father’s large desk by a big window overlooking the mountain range. Roakore pushed a fine oak box forward, a bright smile spreading across his bearded face.

“What’s this?” Helzendar asked, lifting it slightly to test the weight.

“Somethin’ I made ye. A gift. Go on. Open it up.”

Helzendar unlatched the lid and pulled it open slowly. A velvety cloth was laid over an object. Roakore was practically dancing with anticipation by now.

“Ye got me a towel?” Helzendar teased.

“Haha, ye smart arse. Go on, pull it back.”

Helzendar did so, and all levity left his face. He stared at the beautiful steel arm with wonderment, and a slow tear found his eye, which he quickly wiped away. With a trembling hand he pulled the arm from its cradle in the box. “This is amazin’, Father. Thank ye.”

“Ye be welcome, lad.”

“You think…you think I can control it like me own arm?” Helzendar asked.

Roakore gave a laugh. “That be the idea. Here, try it on.”

He took the arm from Helzendar, and the young dwarf removed his jacket and undershirt, exposing his metal-capped stump. With help from Roakore, he fitted the arm on the stump and it clicked into place with a twist.

“What do ye think?” Roakore asked.

“It’s great.”

“Comfortable?”

“Aye, it be a nice fit.”

“Now, I be thinkin’ that ye can move the wrist and fingers just like ye be movin’ anything else. Go on and try it out. Can ye move the fingers?”

Helzendar focused on the steel digits, mentally willing them to move. They did so without so much as a creek, but they moved erratically, mechanically.

“Hah!” Roakore yelled and slapped his knee. “What did I tell ye?”

“This be amazin’,” Helzendar declared.

“Aye, try grabbin’ hold o’ somethin’.” Roakore looked around the room. “That there whiskey bottle, hand it to me if ye can.”

Helzendar leaned over and put the steel hand against the bottle. His tongue hung out the side of his mouth as he concentrated on the task. When the fingers closed around the bottle, Roakore gave another cheer. Then suddenly the bottle burst under the pressure, and they both jumped back.

“Hah! Ye’ll have to learn yer own strength,” said Roakore, chuckling. “Best ye ain’t shakin’ no one’s hand for a while.”

Helzendar gave him a big hug and sniffled. “Thank ye, me king. It be a great gift.”

“Alright then, alright,” said Roakore, wiping an itch from his own eye. “No need to be gettin’ too worked up.” He looked upon his boy with pride. “Come on now. Best we be gettin’ to the trainin’ room. There be silver hawks awaitin’.”

Roakore and Helzendar went up the many flights of stairs to the newly renovated silver hawk perch. Shortly after the fall of Eadon, he had begun buying silver hawk eggs from human merchants who had somehow obtained them during the chaos and warring. Roakore suspected that they had plundered the silver hawk keep of Shierdon, but the merchants swore up and down that they had purchased the eggs from someone else. More than half of the eggs had hatched, and now they were nearly full-grown. With them he intended on creating an elite group of flying dwarf warriors. Since the recent discovery of dragons on Drakkar, he had begun to speed up the process. Already the first of the riders had been chosen, with Helzendar and many of Roakore’s other sons among them. Since they possessed the ability to move stone, they would be even more formidable as silver hawk riders.

When they reached the perch, Roakore and Helzendar found the recruits standing at attention beside their respective silver hawks. Among them was Philo, who had jumped at the opportunity. They stood with their silver-feathered cloaks tucked under one arm. Each rider had been spending time bonding with their hawk—a task that included battling the birds in a kind of dominance ritual. Some had failed, and one had died trying.

Those who succeeded stood before their king proudly, chests puffed out and eyes facing straight. Helzendar hurried to stand beside his mount, a male bird that he had named Goldenwing because of its one long gold feather beneath the right wing.

The other dwarves saw his incredible steel arm and gazed at it with awe. Roakore, not disliking the attention that his work had gained, gave them all a few minutes to marvel at it. They surrounded Helzendar, ogling the fine smith work.

“Listen up and listen good!” said Roakore as he began walking down the line. “Today ye be ridin’ yer silver hawks for the first time. Don’t be doin’ nothin’ stupid or ye just might get yerselves and yer hawk killed. This be serious business. Silver hawks got a mind o’ their own oftentimes. And they be smarter than a horse. You keep them well and they’ll keep you.”

He stopped and scowled at one of the riders. “Where be your goggles?”

The dwarf reached up and felt his head, and then quickly searched his pockets. “I…I seem to have forgotten ‘em, me king,” he said with a gulp.

“Forgot ‘em, did ye?”

“I can run back quick and—”

“What be yer name, soldier?”

“Delgish, sire, but me friends call me Freckles.”

“Well then, Delgish, ye’ll be with the first group then. After a flight without goggles, I dare say ye’ll never be forgettin’ ‘em again. What be yer bird’s name? Or did ye forget to name him?”

“His name be Pecker,” said Freckles proudly.

Roakore scowled at him, eyeing him dangerously. “Come again,” he said low.

Freckles glanced around at the other dwarves, some of whom had begun to snicker. “Ye know, ‘cause birds peck at stuff and all,” he said, looking at the others quizzically.

Roakore shook his head slowly. “Ye special or somethin’?”

“Well, my mum says I be.”

“I think she might be right, lad,” said Roakore, still shaking his head.

The other dwarves were choked up with laughter, but a scowl from their king sobered them quickly.

Roakore picked four others—one of which was Helzendar—for the first test flight. The king put on his feathered cloak and mounted Silverwind nimbly. He pulled on the reins slightly, and she reared back and spread her long wings.

“As ye be knowin’, silver hawks can change the color o’ their feathers accordin’ to their environments. Yer cloaks will change as well. Now, when there ain’t no sign o’ danger, the silver hawk will remain its natural silver. But once ye get to knowin’ ‘em good enough, they’ll change at yer command.”

He pet Silverwind’s neck and told her to change color. She complied, blending into the surrounding stone effortlessly. Her feathers even shimmered and glinted like the shining specks in the stone.

“Now, the silver hawk can blend with the sky, clouds, trees, even water. And it’s important that ye ain’t got nothin’ showin’. Make sure yer cloaks be pulled tight and yer feathered helms be secure. All packs must be covered in feathers, and yer saddles as well—or there ain’t no point in bein’ camouflaged.”

He spurred Silverwind toward the large entrance to the perch and motioned the first group over. “Single file. Follow my lead. Pull the reins right to go right, left to go left, pull back to climb, and push to dive. Give ‘em a bit o’ a twist to do a barrel roll. But that comes later. For now, stay on me tail, and don’t do nothin’ stupid.”

The riders got in line, with Helzendar right behind his father, followed by Freckles and Pecker. Three quick steps and Silverwind was leaping out into the midday sun. Goldenwing wasn’t far behind, followed by a screaming Freckles. Roakore let them get the hang of it, gliding out over the mountainside on a slow and steady current. The dwarves whooped, whistled, and cried out triumphantly as their hawks followed Silverwind.

Roakore glanced back to make sure everyone was following, then he leaned forward. “Alright, Silverwind, they’ve had enough time to get used to it. Let’s take ‘em on a ride. Nothin’ too crazy, mind you. Just nice and eas—”

Silverwind gave a screeching cry and dove suddenly, taking the wind from Roakore’s lungs. Behind them, Goldenwing dove, but Helzendar was ready for it. He gripped the saddle horn firmly with his steel fist and laughed all the while. Freckles had not been so prepared. Without goggles, tears had pooled in his eyes and his vision was nothing but a blur. He cried out and lost hold when Pecker dove hard. If not for the saddle strap, Freckles would have easily been thrown off.

“Easy, ye blasted bird!” Roakore yelled against the howling wind, pulling the reins.

Silverwind gave a proud cry and leveled out a few hundred feet above the mountainside. She banked hard to the right, spiraling into a barrel roll. The other hawks followed her lead—to the terror of Freckles. He was still trying to find a handhold on the saddle and screaming bloody murder.

The group leveled out and sailed over a valley between two mountains. Roakore looked ahead and saw what Silverwind was flying for. When he spotted the waterfall, he gave the reins a quick jerk. “Don’t even think about it,” he warned his mount.

She ignored him and beat her large wings, which had turned as blue as the sky. Behind them Helzendar was still howling, thoroughly enjoying himself. He had been on many rides with his father and was quite used to it. The others, however, weren’t doing so well. Their faces were stark white, with a slight green tint. White-knuckled fists clutched saddle horns and reins, and many of the poor dwarves had begun to pray.

They flew higher and higher, one thousand feet and then two, until they were directly above the waterfall. Silverwind leveled out, but before Roakore could mutter another warning, she tucked in her wings, pointed her beak at the ground, and dropped like a stone.

The wind roared in Roakore’s ears and pulled his beard completely out from underneath his armor to slap him in the face continuously. He cursed all the while as his cheeks flapped in the breeze like a banner in a windstorm. The pressure mounted quickly and his ears popped.

Silverwind suddenly opened her wings and veered close to the sheer cliff, quickly approaching the thousand-foot waterfall that fed the lake below. Knowing that it was no use to try to deter the stubborn hawk, Roakore instead held tight. The hawks rode the cliff sideways, following Silverwind’s lead as she veered left and tucked her wings, zipping through the back of the waterfall. The six silver hawks emerged with feathers like water, shimmering in the bright sunlight.

To the panting dwarves’ relief, Silverwind led the flock down to the valley and landed.

Freckles was clinging to the neck of his mount, muttering something to himself and still clenching his eyes tight. Two of the riders scrambled out of their saddles and fell to the ground to throw up. The remaining rider, a stout old dwarf named Grizzle who had more than a little silver in his hair, had gotten sick in the air, it seemed, for he was covered in his undigested lunch.

Roakore dismounted, shaking his head at Silverwind. “Now look what ye did. They’ll probably never want to fly again after what ye put ‘em through.”

“Bah, they’ll be alright,” Helzendar chuckled. “Best way to learn be to just jump right in, eh?”

The valley had been recently tilled as per Roakore’s request. Rain had been sparse during the hot summer months, but the dwarves were clever creatures and had built an irrigation system fed by the lake at the center of the valley. Many barns had been erected to house the growing herds of cattle. There were also sheep and giant mountain goats about, along with horses, ponies, and oxen. The Ro’Sar Mountains had many such valleys, and farming had also begun on some of the flatter slopes. The dwarves grew mostly potatoes, carrots, and other high-yield vegetables, finding them preferable to troublesome greens. Being quite fond of the drink, the dwarves also grew fields of wheat, hops, and barley.

There were many dwarves about who had been tending to the crops. They clapped and cheered their king and his hawk riders, gathering around the bank for a look at the mystical creatures.

Roakore let them gawk for a while before ordering them all back to their work and the riders back into their saddles. Freckles looked distraught and reluctant to ride again. Tears streamed down his face, and his eyes were so puffy it looked as though he had been crying all night.

“Ye havin’ second thoughts about bein’ a hawk rider?” Roakore asked.

“No, sire! Not at all, if ye please. But I wish I hadn’t forgot me goggles,” said the dwarf, having to continuously wipe his eyes to see straight.

“Here,” said Roakore, tossing the dwarf an extra pair. “Mind ye give ‘em back when we reach the perch.”

“Thank ye, me king. And I won’t ever be forgettin’ mine again.”

On the flight back to the perch, Silverwind was merciful and obeyed Roakore’s guidance. He brought them out over the eastern edge of the range and back to the perch, where the other riders waited impatiently for their turn to go.

Roakore brought out four more groups of five. Each group was led on the same crazy ride as the first. A few of them got sick, and one, named Arkose, even passed out—though he swore up and down that the ride had been so timid that he fell asleep. The other riders saw through his ruse, however, and taunted him mercilessly. From that day forth he was known as Arkose the Sleepy.

All in all, Roakore was pleased with the first day of flight training. The riders had done well enough, and to their credit, none of them had gotten themselves killed. Roakore just hoped that they were ready when the dragons decided to retaliate, a moment that he felt was coming soon.