Mud and Horn, Sword and Sparrow (Runehammer Books Book 1) Page 3

  She had dared the tower alone, climbing through dark chambers and locked doors to see the legendary view from the rooftop. This tiny town was stifling. Hers was a family of grey-blooded laborers, and she wanted some excitement. So she had practiced, and trained, and nagged, and planned. Tonight she saw that great view, but it was only the beginning of her adventure.

  On the way down from surveying the surprisingly dull countryside from that height, she heard a weird humming drone or chant. She paused one level below the roof and slid into a stairway shadow. With her size and lightness of foot, becoming invisible to most was all too easy. There she skulked until the far door creaked open. A dull-eyed guard trudged out and Silvi waited, then slinked into position, sliding a wooden shim into the doorframe before it could click and lock shut. The guard vanished.

  Through that tiny slit she peered in. Her brown eyes widened, and she could feel the hairs at her neck stand on end like toothpicks. One hand reached for her dagger, and the other a vial of smoke dust.

  What she saw inside was a shocking phantasm of supernatural horror. The naked, writhing, melting body of Queen Lydea coiled and oscillated like ooze. An incense of twisting smoke whirled ‘round the dim, and the heads of Orcs stood dried, screaming, and ghoulish in the red light of lamps and furs.

  From these ghastly trophies did she draw an invisible energy, that burnt one’s mind to behold. Its nothingness fed her power, and she looked as young as ever. But Silvi’s eye was met by hers, and in an instant of perspective-shattering oddity, the Queen morphed into her usual beautiful, begowned self. At Silvi’s eye she stood an arm’s distance, glowing.

  Silvi planted one heel, finding solid purchase on the wellkept stone etchings. One second of staring into Lydea’s eyes was more than she could stand, and she fled.

  So it was Silvi rolled, bounced and hacked her way to the chamber window. Through it she caromed, and made flight through the sticks into the hay of a grey nag. She had seen what no one could know: Queen Lydea was a dark, undead otherworldy… thing. Times had grown dark. Silvi would be killed on sight.

  She pondered these issues and various escape and cover plans as she flopped through rushing air, then in a bonebruising thwump in the barns. Into the river and treetop sleep tonight, she thought to herself. So was it thought, and by the grace of women and the luck of youth she lay unscathed in the crook of an elm. The Queen was fuming, elves were searching.

  Silvi slept, and dreamt of horrible things.

  “Do you always sleep in trees?” an earthy, fatherly voice asked.

  Silvi woke in a fog, but then laid eyes on the face of Vald, Captain of Akram. Some called him Silver Storm, or MoonChopper. She froze.

  “I see you,” he said gently, “come down. I’ve bacon and at least half a tomato here.” He smiled, and the warmth of that smile could be seen even through his silver helm. Silvi took his breakfast, and skulked nearby. “You nest like a little sparrow, friend,” he renewed.

  Silvi did not answer. She had been caught snoozing. No one had ever caught her off guard since she was four. She had made sure of it.

  “What’s your name?” Vald asked. He bent down to one knee, and rested great Fenrir, the Grey Wolf, on the grassy grit. “I mean you no harm, these are wild lands. We’d both be safer traveling together.” If he winked, it was hard to see through the steel slots.

  Silvi never spoke in those early days. And Vald just called her Sparrow. So it was.

  Lydea never found her, and weeks passed. The dark, eldritch secret of Castle Westburg seemed safe.

  That was almost a year ago. Silvi had only parted ways with Vald in recent weeks since then, and only because of a personal invitation from Lydea herself. He had told Sparrow to wait in Helmsport until he returned, but she had been following him. He probably knew she was there the whole time, but he let her have her shadows and secrets.

  Sparrow was at a safe distance when Vald fell and the Orc carried him off. Fretting, but still unseen, Sparrow followed them to the farmhouse. After two days of watching, waiting, she was out of food and getting weary of the vigil. She decided to take the direct approach, and gave a confident knock at the front door. Ory answered, Tomm’s stout wife. She stood barely taller than Sparrow, but thick and sturdy from farm labor and more than a few tours with Akram’s army. Her hair was gold as summer grain, and her eyes warm and friendly.

  “You look a fright, child,” Ory said instantly, “come inside and have some soup, by the Fates!” She wrapped her sleeved arm around Sparrow’s cloak, and welcomed her. Sparrow did not speak. She had not felt the soft embrace of a mother’s arms for years. They sat and ate, and Ory asked no questions. When Sparrow was done, and cozy and full, she began looking around. Muted voices could be heard in another room.

  “What is it, my girl?” Ory asked, clearing the table. Sparrow had eaten soup and trencher both, not leaving a single crumb.

  Sparrow didn’t answer, but rose and took a few steps toward the rear chambers.

  “The men are arguing about the usual,” Ory explained, still standing placidly in the kitchen, “wars and plots and adventure.” Sparrow remained silent, but her eyes told the tale. “You know the Captain of Akram? Is that why you’re here?” She stepped out, tying her apron back. “Let me fetch them both.”

  After a few long moments Ory returned to the great room. Sparrow was stone still. Tomm strode in next, eyeing the girl and carrying a wooden tankard. Behind him limped Vald, her Captain. He was in common clothes and bandaged around the ribs. He was pale, but clearly on the mend.

  “Ah, my little Sparrow,” he smiled. She rushed forward and hugged him. He winced, but she didn’t care. “We’ve quite a reunion here, friends. Now would someone care to explain how a petty band of roadmen felled a captain of Akram with a single arrow?” he looked into Sparrow’s eyes as he spoke, and none of his doom there rested. For her he always smiled, even with his eyes only.

  “The poison was Elvish,” Tomm answered, “and a unique blend. It’s beyond my skill to discern.”

  Ory stepped forward, took the black shaft from Tomm’s hand, smiled at him with sardonic subtext that only those who have loved each for decades can know, and walked back to the kitchen. She brought out powder and pestle, and went to work without speaking.

  “She’s the best alchemist in Westburg,” Tomm said, smiling.

  “And what of the savage,” Vald resumed, content to let Ory work, “slain as well?”

  “Actually, that is the interesting part old friend.” Tomm answered. Vald raised an eyebrow. He leaned on Sparrow. “It was that Orc who saved your skin. He brought you here.” Vald was dumbfounded, but didn’t show it. “..and?”

  “And he is currently waiting for your leave.”

  “Waiting?” Sparrow heard anger in her Captain’s voice. She looked up at him. Hers was a disarming look; innocence and honesty asking him for calm.

  “Aye,” Tomm took a quaff and wiped his beard of foam, “in the shed.”

  “The shed?” Vald froze. Everyone in the room froze. Vald had spent his life warring on Orcs, and burying friends killed by their hooked blades. The air hung heavy for a long moment.

  “The shed!” Vald burst out laughing, and lifted Sparrow to one hip. She giggled and perched one boot on his forearm like a falcon. “Then let’s meet my savior face to face, and be done with whodunits and tales! Ory, what say your pestles and powers?”

  “This is a poison ground from Hiburis: the Queen’s flower. None but her royal guard know this recipe... certainly no roadman.”

  “As I suspected, then, Ms. Tomm,” she was deadly serious, but he was in the mood to clear the air. Ory cast a worried glance at her husband, but Vald was already striding to the back porch with a grin. Men of courage have such moments, when secrecy and plots become tiresome and even old enemies may sit at the table to speak their piece. This is one of many qualities that made Vald a leader of men, a hero among heroes, and one who never failed to pay a blood debt.

  Mud sat pa
tiently in the shed. He could hear every word spoken within, and he remained unstirred. He had gazed on black worlds between suns. The political obstacles he faced in the next few moments were drops in an ocean.

  Vald strode in, and sunlight followed. Sparrow was at his side. She had only seen a few Orcs face to face, and those she had killed. Her eyes betrayed her fear. Behind the Silver Storm Tomm and Ory stood. Vald let a beat pass, and held an even face. This gesture invited Mud to speak.

  “Feeling better, I trust?” Mud rose and extended one massive hand. All but Vald flinched at the sight. The Captain reached forward and clasped Mud’s forearm with vigor.

  “I owe you my life, Orc… and my thanks.”

  “No debt to be taken lightly, Captain. I ask nothing, save freedom deserved.”

  “Yours.” There was a pause, and they released their grip.

  “Not so simple, I’m afraid, Captain,” Mud continued, “I ask for the freedom of all Orcs, and an end to this era of tyranny and curses.”

  “You ask much,” Vald answered, “let’s start with your name, as you seem to know mine.”

  “I am called Mud.”

  7

  Night bent inward in a cloud of ink. Sparrow lifted her hood with bravado, and darted silently into the dark. Mud knelt nearby, Vald and Tomm standing in long black tabards that hid their armor. All four of them were concealed near the entrance to Dobbs Dim, a three-gabled tavern at the southern wall of Westburg.

  “Stay here,” Tomm began, “Ol’ Dobbs is the only one who knows the tunnels.”

  “This is madness,” Vald grumbled, “I have a personal invitation from the Queen. Why not walk in and simply state our case?”

  “Invitation?” Tomm spat, “is that what you call her cowardly attempt on your life? We do it my way, and get Mud’s people out. Then, you can goose strut and get yourself killed all you like.”

  With that, they shuffled toward the swinging doors, and Mud kept to his hidey-hole. They all had their parts to play, and Ol’ Dobbs would not be easy to convince. Thus, they had what Tomm called a plan, and what Ory called suicide. The decision to set their heels against the Queen, commit treason, and begin what amounted to a rebellion had come surprisingly quick. Mud had a way with words to say the least. The weight of slavery and slaughter was heavy on every good heart, and the days of crushing the Orc race simply because of their differences needed to end. All agreed to these tenets, but exactly what to do about it had been a lengthy kerfuffle.

  Mud’s goal was nothing short of a revolution: to not only free every Orc slave, and end every campaign of genocide, but to unify and move the Orcs as a single people. They would go North, and there where the world is still young and wide they would make their kingdom. It all began here at the Tower of Westburg, Hath-Ordur. This was the seat of Elvish power in the West, and Queen Lydea’s reign was a thousand years old. In her dungeons ten score Orcs languished.

  By night’s end, they would be free.

  The entrance to the secret tunnel beneath the castle wall was known only to Dobbs Tarny and no other, and they would use this tunnel to gain entrance. So the “convincing” phase of the plan was set in motion. Vald and Tomm shuffled inside.

  The tavern was typical for that era. High peaked ceilings braced by thick pine beams loomed above, and the heads of trophy elk, moose, and bear adorned every wall. Above the bar a massive, scaled lizard head was hung on an oak plaque. The light was low and warm, thrown by hearth and candelabra. A dozen patrons murmured and guzzled Gar at the round tables. The orange glow defied a cold draft, colder even than the disapproving stares of the salty drunks, brass flappards and wenches that noticed the cloaked figures.

  Vald and Tomm strode to the bar, and sat down on the high pine bench.

  “Show us where the secret tunnel is,” Vald began. Tomm spat his pipe out in surprise.

  “‘S’cuse me sir?” Dobbs asked. He was twirling a white rag in a glass tankard, like all bartenders do.

  “What he means to say, ol’ Dobbs, is we’d like a mug o’ Gar!” Tomm leaned back and distracted the ‘keep with some garden variety beard twirling.

  When heroes gather for mugs, and the fire burns low, the foundations of many great adventures are forged. Cold Gar stirs men’s hearts and warms a woman’s attention. The hours drag on and they yell and laugh over nothing, and the world is better for it. Those times tales are shouted, old poems remembered, and vows flow with the wine; this is when history is made.

  Tonight was one such occasion. The secret tunnels had been mentioned, discounted, and yelled about three or four times already. The barkeep presented two pewter mugs of gold, sparkling Gar. Tomm’s memory of the plan vaporized, and he proceeded to enjoy 4 such tankards. Vald kept step, and his ribs started feeling better for the first time in a week.

  “I’ll only ask once more,” Vald burped, thumping his empty mug to the bar.

  Tomm was distracted with guzzling his liquid gold.

  “Where is the secret tunnel into Lydea’s Tower?” The din of revelry covered his tone, and the barkeep leaned forward.

  “Why should I tell you, even if there were such a thing, Northman?”

  Vald lay 20 crowns in a leather pouch on the bar. Tomm caught notice, and finished his mug.

  “20 crowns and a long life seem payment enough,” Vald hissed. He was bold with beer and thin on patience. The lust for action ever plagued a man of his history.

  “No payment could convince me to betray Lydea, friend. She is our Queen! Hail Lydea!” Dobbs’ charade was terribly unconvincing.

  Tomm pulled down his hood to an even darker place. “Look, Ol’ Dobbsy boy, we’re about to fake your kidnapping. Evil times have descended on our already treacherous town, and it ends tonight. If we muscle you out of here, your alibi will be airtight when things go to hell in the morning.”

  “Kidnap? wha-”

  Before he could finish, Vald sprung. Over the bar, hood in place, he had a choke hold on Dobbs in an instant. The bar hushed and a few blades were drawn. Tomm knew of Dobbs’ back door, though, and he and Vald were slipping into the store room before the patrons could stand. From there a door led to the rat-lined alley behind, where a dagger found its edge at Ol’ Dobbs’ neck.

  “The tunnels, barkeep” Vald said.

  Tomm pulled back his hood.

  “Tomm? Why you pond scum! What in blazes is all this? Ory will have your hide man!”

  “Never mind that, old friend. The tunnel! The time for secrecy is over. Treachery has tainted our province, and the oppression of the Orc race will be the catalyst that sets a cleansing in motion. The dark days of the West end tonight!”

  “You’re speeches have always been horrible, but that was a mess. Orcs? What care have you for their wretched species? They are mindless brutes and killers!” Dobbs held perfectly still.

  At that moment Mud emerged from a dark corner, jumping into a crouch like a lemur. Dobbs flinched but held still.

  “Brutes indeed, human,” Mud began in an even, scholarly tone, “and that makes you what? The King’s Sage?” The shock of an Orc speaking in such a fashion made Dobbs wide-eyed. He eased.

  “The tunnels are accessed through a sliding rock wall in the bar basement. Look behind the fourth barrel of Red Gar.”

  “Red Gar has been outlawed for years,” Vald criticized, “and here you’re sitting on four barrels?”

  “Enforce the law after the jailbreak, old chum.”

  Vald loosed his grip and they darted into the basement entrance; a wide plank-hatch that swung upward. In seconds they were gone, and Dobbs had an account of his alibi. All was going quite smoothly. Sparrow, satisfied they were unseen by the curious patrons, sped along the rooftops to the tower wall. She had her own way in. She was what Vald called an ‘insurance policy.’

  8

  Queen Lydea was the most celebrated of the Elvish rulers still in power. Her Father, King Hellas, had ruled for centuries before retiring to a private life in Delin Valley, where he yet l
ived. King Akram, the half-dwarven peacemaker, had firmly ended the age of Elves. Lydea was seen as above the old feuds, though, and she was widely perceived as a symbol of all that was once good and noble in the past.

  Public opinion could not be more wrong.

  Elves were a perfect race. Free of ugliness or greed or lust or hatred or lechery were they. Their skin was pure, and their souls even more so. Their kin dwelled in towering edifices of beauty and woodland oases. Their warriors were noble, generous, humble guardians of a fading world. All that was best in life the Elves symbolized…until the War of the Wall.

  There was a great dispute a millennium past between Elves and Dwarves. They both lay ancestral claim to the Eastern Lands of Duros-Tem and Ur. When the Dwarves announced they would be driven no further back from the world, the Elves made war on them, and took an opinion of racial supremacy over them. This was the first ugliness ever shown by the noble race.

  Now, Dwarves are terrible enemies, for they never relent or even consider appeasement. So the Elves broke against them like waves on a rock. This was the first taste of defeat the Elves had ever known, and it revealed in them one more splinter of darkness. They receded from the Dwarven Wall, leaving a battlefield that never mended, and it became a wasteland.

  In the years following their defeat at the hands of the Dwarves, the Elves were seen much less, and hid away in their tree castles. The cities and kingdoms of Humankind arose, and with them a new race emerged from the shadows: the Orcs. At first they had human features, and were little more than mutants or outcasts. As generations passed, though, their form became more terrible. They grew larger, greenish, and their teeth bulged out of their mouths. They were feared and hated.

  When these creatures began to organize, and demand of men their own place in the world, the Elves once again showed their golden faces. They proclaimed themselves saviors, and made a horrible war on the Orcs. They enslaved and killed them wherever they hid, and mankind drew back from the feud. In time the Orcs were scattered, rotting in dungeons, or driven into hiding.