The Shield of Hannar (Runehammer Novels Book 2) Page 10

  The Foamy Goat some called that place, but its official name was Rinn’s Rest. It lay in the frigid high foothills between the Wall of Duros and the great Doors, which served as the entrance to the Undermountain realm of all the Dwarves and their true-blood kinfolk. The tavern was a sort of waystation for garrison guards moving back and forth to posts, wagoning supplies or on repair detail. Those old timbered walls had stood for five generations. That was almost fifteen hundred years by dwarven count, and they showed the wear. Every corner was worn, every table replaced a dozen times over, every floor board worn to tatters and scarred with brawls and dance. A massive moose head, wide as the room itself, spanned the length of the bar, and from its mighty antlers hung daggers, gold chains, and baubles of all kinds from over the years. It was a good place. The kind of place worth fighting for in those times.

  But this was the last night any dwarf would taste Gar there, the last night those noble old timbers would stand.

  Now, on the note of Gar, Gus stocked a half-dozen taps most days, filling the frontmost barrels with a black stout for breakfast. No mug is as crucial to dwarven disposition as breakfast. Behind these he kept two reds; one with a hoppy tang, almost like cider, and the other a flat, room temperature swill fit for those already drunk. Finally, there was the gold. This recipe Gus brewed himself in the ancient cellars, and took great pride in it. It was called Queen’s Kiss by most, or Liquid Sunshine. A gold piece for a single mug, it was held as one of the finest ales in all history. Tonight, the four of them were at the hoppy red. Red Gar can make a fierce hero of a dwarf.

  “Tell me again,” one guard murmured, at his mug, “when we make for the Doors? I’ve a hankerin’ for home.”

  “Three nights hence,” his companion answered. “The Undermountain is all but empty with the brigades bolstering in the South. We’ve a lot of ground to cover.”

  “Blasted elven liars,” the third soldier grunted, “Why don’t they just declare war and make their move? All this subterfuge is a waste of time.”

  Gus surveyed this conversation, well aware of the brewing conflict with the elves. A new generation of warriors among them was rising in popularity, and they sought to restore what they once had held and lost. It was only a matter of time.

  “You’ll get your war soon enough, clodbrain,” he punctuated, “and only a fool wishes for a tide of death.”

  The soldier rose suddenly, kicking his stool backward, fuming.

  “He’s right,” the first guard barked. “Itching for a fight and an all-out war are two very different things.”

  The standing soldier huffed, knocked back a heroic quaff of the spicy ale with a splash, and slammed the mug down. “You’re right, lads,” he admitted. “It’s not war or death I crave, just a good knock on the helmet.”

  The middle guard obliged, clocking him square with his mug. The dwarf bounced backward, forgetting his stool was gone, and flopped onto the planked floor like an upended wagon. He froze, wide-eyed, then burst out laughing.

  “Another round, Gus! And pour like you mean it!” At this, a cheer came to the quiet tavern, and the wind answered.

  No one knows exactly how it happened, for snow and distance kept hidden the actual events of that night, and no dwarf lived to tell the tale.

  The Red Captain took refuge there from the night’s bluster, en route to the Doors of Duros. At his side went Hannar, struggling against the dark power that kept his will in the Red Captain’s control. He must have been a grim sight after the battle atop the Great Wall, a headlong sprint across the frigid foothills, and finally standing there in the entrance to Rinn’s Rest tavern.

  Legends tell of the woe that young dwarf endured that dark night. Made the hellish weapon of black magic, joining forces with the very target of his wrath, made to kill his own folk. This woe took its toll on him, and aged were his eyes beyond their short years. They glowed like demonfire, and in that gaze the sadness of eons unfairly burned.

  History knows only what scene was found by Akram’s company, days later. They had recovered Kray and Elisa from their rocky throat and wandered through the tunnels of solid rock, finally emerging at the ruined garrison of Kellan. From there, they crossed the mighty Wall of Duros, and made chase across the frigid foothills. Up to Rinn’s Rest, the Foamy Goat called by some, they walked with horror in their guts. No smoke spiraled up from the building, it was silent and dark. Snow licked at its blocky roof, a one-sided A-frame style with three high gables and a massive central joist beam that stood broad and ancient at each end. On each wall, three high windows yawned, unbroken, but black as cavern shadows. The wind hummed and turned. It was late morning, and Akram hesitated. In his heart, he knew a great darkness lay here, and it pained his brow.

  In through the iron-rimmed door they stepped, slowly, like thieves in a tomb. Akram was at the lead, longhammer in hand, his brass helmet adorned with those triangular plates and chevrons of his time. His great clasped beard waved with the breeze, and his shoulders held a mighty wolf pelt.

  Next was Elisa, the Headsman of Englemoor, who sported little to stave off the cold. Her flawless skin defied the ice, and was beautiful. She towered above the Falcon King like a giant, but her lovely features were placid and calm. Her great axe lost in the caves, she sported ringmail and, now, a half-dozen salvaged swords and hand pikes from fallen foes and cobwebbed caches found since.

  Then came Kray, the warrior of Ramthas, in mail and tunic. His chiseled scruff was shadowed by his silver helm. One hand he lay on Elisa’s shoulder, for he nursed three broken ribs, a broken arm, and countless scratches and bruises from his fall in the undercavern. With him walked Anna, Hannar’s mother, who was no soldier but had the look of a seasoned traveler. She was wrapped in a thick gray cloak, fur at the hood and clasped with an iron clip. In her eyes the deepest fear gathered, for she knew at once her son had been here.

  Behind her followed what remained of the Elite. These warriors now numbered six in all, their numbers thinned by that elven horror in the under realm. They were grim, and silent, and mimicked every footstep of Kray as they approached. All of them entered the tavern without sound, surveying the scene, aghast.

  And finally came Mars Gulgynn. The snow gathered at his beard in clumps, his eyes were burning with anger. He had buried enough of his kin to last a lifetime, and his stomach knew more dead awaited them here. Over one shoulder he carried Ruin, the famed blade of his age. It was broad and blue with cold danger, reflecting the grays and reds of his beard and helm. He knew nothing of stealth, and clumped onto the wooden floor without care. There was little left to lose.

  “Gus!” Mars barked suddenly, breaking the gloomy silence and making Kray flinch. “Gus!” Mars shoved his way forward carelessly, stomping across the tavern to the bar.

  The place was all in shambles: overturned tables, shattered chairs, and wall shelves torn to pieces. Weapon marks and splintered planks accented every corner. Gus, that age-old barman Mars had known so well in his early days, lay face down at his station.

  “No…” Mars trailed off, reaching the bar in terror. Gus’ face had been mashed into the bartop with terrible force. Splinters and cracks in the wood radiated out from his crushed skull like a crater. Nearby, in pools of dried blood, three more dwarves lay dead. One was missing an arm, where it had been torn out by the roots. Another was bent horribly backward over a handrail, eyes wide open in death’s final second. The cold had made them all rigid, for they had been there for days.

  “They show no mark of the obelisk,” Akram spoke solidly, moving from one to the next.

  “That’s because the Red Captain did not kill these good folk,” Anna replied from nearby, “my son did.” In her hands, she held a splinter of wood. It was unremarkable to most, but Mars recognized it immediately. It was a mushy, pitted piece of pine mended with makeshift iron strips and a rusted nail. Anna knew every dimple and grain line of that fragment. It was a piece of Wall. She had extracted it from Gus’ smashed skull. She began to cry.

/>   “We don’t know that,” Mars answered, refusing to imagine it.

  “We’re gaining on them, my King,” Kray interrupted. He stooped, with a wince, to the hearth. It was not warm, but had not iced over or gone soggy. Its last fire was only three or four days distant. To Anna the Falcon walked, gently holding up one great broad and gloveless hand. This he placed on hers, and looked into her tear-filled eyes. She was drawn and bloodless.

  “We do not rest until that demon is destroyed, and your son restored,” Akram said with that stately tone that stirred heroes’ hearts. “This I swear by all the old blood, by Udin’s eye and Thoor’s hammer. War be damned, they’ve made a boy into a killer…”

  Anna fell into his arms and wept. All of them, a haggard, battered company, stood in silence and waited. But Anna was still a dwarf maiden, and strong as a bear. She took a breath, and rose. Into each face she then peered, and made stiff her chin against the dread.

  “We go no further until these noble dwarves lay in the stones the old way,” she said. “Will you help me?” No words were uttered, but all eleven of them worked together and finished the grim work in silence.

  A dwarven funeral is no small thing. But this day, late in the morning at Rinn’s Rest, there were no songs, or vows, or mighty stones stood on end. Cairns stood noble and lonely in the snows, the doors were closed, and a lone black banner whipped at the roof’s crest as they continued onward to the east. Their tracks were wiped away by the wind, and like a terrible mausoleum the tavern slowly diminished into the horizon behind them.

  On the last ridge, with the Foamy Goat almost out of view, Mars Gulgynn tarried. Like an ancient granite statue he stood, sword straight down, and lowered his head. He could not shake the nightmare forming in his mind: that Hannar would stand ‘tween them and their prey. He remembered guzzling Gar with old Gus, and his own brother Brann torn limb from limb and cut down by Ruin’s unfailing edge. Every drop of dwarven blood he would take back from the Red Captain.

  He lifted his chin, and as he stared into the distance the wind rose, and the blowing snow hid Rinn’s Rest from view. It is good that none of his company saw his face at that moment, for all the fury of his folk was on him, and nobility was burned away by vengeance. There was no war to avert, no mystery to solve, no wrongs to make right, only a life to end on Ruin’s thirsty blade.

  23

  The clock of existence ticks ahead at the strangest moments. The eons yawn and turn in impossible scale around us, but we never seem to notice the ending of an epoch until it has long since passed. New generations rise and fall, but only looking back are those crucial turning points made clear.

  All the efforts of the ineffable gods go like rain on a rooftop, and the lives of countless mortals flow over the centuries like blood on a battlefield. Behind time and between dimensions the true essence of it all goes hidden and unwavering as we live and die.

  The luxury of the tale-teller is to know those monumental markers of time, and make good on them for a yarn that will endure. So it was that such a moment came to Alfheim, the fourth realm of Urth, when a lonely gleam of torchlight fell on the flawless, rune-etched surface of Angrid, the Lawgiver, or Huro Din as it was called by dwarves.

  This light, barely there and oppressed by crushing blackness, grew. A crack crumbled in a far wall, and for the first time in countless centuries, light betrayed the lightless fathoms of the diamond-shaped chamber. Its ceiling was a hundred feet beyond the ridge-carved floor, and at one end stood the leaning effigy of Hela, half that height. The fissure widened, allowing more light, and two forms were revealed against the gloomy orange glow. A cloaked gaunt figure stepped through the fracture, hands hidden, followed by a dwarven boy holding a flickering flame in one hand, and a withered wooden shield in the other. Clad in tatters and studded belt was the boy, and his brow was twisted with grim resistance to the dark wizard’s supernatural will.

  These were Aras, the Red Captain, Herald of the Devourer, dwarf-bane, and Hannar Hunnin’s son.

  Through the last bit of rubble Hannar kicked his way, and they crossed that eldritch place with silent awe. Beside the great towering statue of Hela there was a sort of jagged outcrop. Some seismic shock had shaken the room in ages past, leaning the statue to one side and opening a bottomless abyss below. At the precipice of this unfathomable drop the rock face jutted outward, and the Red Captain knew this was the deep place that had beckoned him. The Devourer would rise here, rise and multiply and shatter the stone above to reveal itself to the doomed world. Their journey had been aided by magicks, and controlling the mighty mind of Hannar was also taxing, so the wizard needed rest before the great ritual. They sat there at Hela’s stone feet.

  Two days passed they there in Hela’s chamber. At last, the Red Captain’s power was gathered, so he rose.

  “No doubt, our enemies give chase, boy,” Aras began. Mortal voices in that hell-deep chamber were unnatural and unwelcome. “Arm yourself with a true weapon, will you?” With this he gestured upward.

  There above them, in the very bust of Hela, rested a dwarven sword. Hannar, unable to resist the bidding of his arcane master, ascended the statue with blank eyes. He reached out, trembling, and grasped the hilt of that artifact. Even in his clouded state, Hannar knew the weight of this moment. The sword drew out from its perch, and the ringing was long and harmonic like a tuning fork. The steel was flawless, its balance perfect, the edge like a timeless razor. The folds were infinite in the reflective perfection. Lawgiver. Angrid, the King’s Blade, Huro Din. The great heirloom of all dwarvenkind.

  Then stood Hannar facing the makeshift entrance. He held the legendary sword in his left hand, and Wall in his right. Like a stone golem, he was motionless, on guard, and grim-faced as death itself.

  Aras, the Red Captain threw his cloak back, revealed that blasphemous obelisk, and scampered atop the outcrop with a gulp. The vast black was all around him. Like a demigod he held out his arms, and began to speak the dead words taught him from the cold of space. The Devourer was near, and the journey at an end. They had passed through the great Doors, and moved through the abandoned reaches of the Undermountain undetected. The dwarf realms were all but empty in those days, and it was a silent lonely place.

  A humming, a rumbling, and whispering of inhuman tongues. The end of the world began, but by heroic effort, hearts pounding, feet in shreds, eyes sleepless and weary, King Akram and his company made their appearance. One by one they crept into the chamber, facing off with Hannar. All the mortal realm lay in the balance. The Red Captain knew they had come, but acknowledged them not and continued. His dire servant would take care of these insects. The chanting rolled on.

  “Hannar!” Anna cried, stumbling in through the crumbling crack. “It’s over son.” But she hesitated. His face was blank, and he recognized no one. Slowly his shield and sword raised. “Hannar, hear me my little tiger… Hannar?”

  Akram sensed what was happening, and strode forth in front of Anna. He held a broad open hand ahead of him, cautious, but hoping to disarm the boy. His other clasped his hammer, and the Elite took their cue.

  “Stay where you stand,” Hannar spoke in a ringing, phased demonic voice from beyond this world. “Stay and witness the Devourer.”

  Akram meant to subdue him. The Red Captain was in view, but fifty feet away and would not be easy to reach. Only a heroic throw of a weapon could make contact at that range, and a miss meant one less blade in the battle to come.

  “Stay… where… you…. STAND!” With this, Hannar’s eyes lit with pinkish fire, and he opened his chest to brandish arms. Then together he slammed Angrid and Wall, taking one lunging step toward Akram and his company. They flinched at this terrible sight, and Hannar used their hesitation to unleash hell.

  Angrid sang through the air with a flash, and Akram met the attack with his hammer, parrying. The force of the blow was beyond possible. Akram’s iron boots splintered the basalt floor with a crack, and his hammer was pushed back into his face. The clang
still rung out as Hannar’s next attack unfolded. He opened his right arm, still crushing Akram with his left, and knocked Hauser aside as the Elite guard charged in. The force of this blow was terrible, and Hauser slid like a doll into the far pillar, hitting it with a horrible crack of bone.

  Anna stumbled backward, and Elisa joined the fray with fury. She reached forward to grapple the raging boy, but he pivoted to one knee, and twisted Akram into a tumble. Wall he raised, deflecting Elisa’s massive gloved hands. From there he turned to the opposite hip, lowering his head. Angrid spun around with a lapis flash and met its mark on Elisa’s left leg, cleaving through boot and flesh. She fell, but caught herself with one hand and drew a shortsword with the other.

  “Hannar! Stop!” Anna cried out, but she was spellbound and shocked, paralyzed with terror. The Elite lurched forward, attacking in unison. They covered Hannar like a swarm of beetles, but then exploded away from him. The boy was mighty with arcane power, and the soldiers flew in all directions. Two of them clattered and slid into the abyss near the great outcrop, and their screams faded into the endless black.

  This Hannar used to take the initiative, and shot forward like a missile. Angrid before him, he skewered one of the surviving Elite utterly. They had no chance against him. Another he crushed into pulp with Wall, and the shield buckled. It was little more than splinters and iron bands now, but the little berserk fought on like a crazed animal.

  Mars brought forth Ruin’s awful blade, and it met Angrid with a hail of sparks. Impossibly, Hannar parried, braced, and rebounded the blow sending Mars reeling back. Ruin hit the floor with a screech of steel on stone.

  At that moment, some mythic power vibrated through the walls, through the very roots of the earth, and an arc of glowing hellfire flashed in a blinding tendril of light. The Red Captain let a cry, and stood at the epicenter of the energy, now rapturous and bathed in spirals of dancing ember.