Mud and Horn, Sword and Sparrow (Runehammer Books Book 1) Read online

  Onto this scene Queen Lydea strode, and for generations she ruled, and drove back the Orc raiders, and guarded the town of Westburg with her power. Rumor could be heard of her dark side, but it never amounted to anything.

  A different view of her majesty was held by little Sparrow, though, who had seen the dark rites in that tower chamber. Sparrow knew some horrible power was at play, but her place was at Vald’s side. When he chose to confront the Queen, she would have her answers then and not before. She crouched in an archer’s loophole in the tower wall, stone still. The shadows wrapped her in invisibility.

  By now Vald, Tomm, and Mud were no doubt near the dungeons. Her ears were alert, and she held her breath in intervals to hear every murmur. An hour passed.

  Meanwhile, in the damp below, Vald and his companions were releasing Orcish prisoners and ushering them into the tunnel. They kept quiet, but one elderly Orc with grey hair and eyes blind with age could not help but stop and speak.

  “Lord? My Lord? Is that you?” he whispered.

  “Aye, friend,” Mud replied, “none other. Now is not the time for reunions though, old Rel.”

  “My King!” Rel replied. He leaned his grey forehead against Mud’s mighty chest. Mud obliged him, and rested his wide hand on his subject’s crown. “My King, I knew you’d come. Our people knew.”

  Mud grumbled, and moved Rel along. The other Orcs saw to his care, and in moments they were all shuffling down the tunnel in near silence. Tomm was at the far door, beside a fallen Elven guard he had knocked senseless with his smith’s hammer.

  “Time is short, fellows,” Tomm hissed, “let’s be rid of this place.”

  Vald seemed not to hear him, and turned to Mud. “King?” “Now,” Tomm gasped, breaking them up.

  “Sorry, ol’ Tomm,” Vald began, in a bold speaking voice, “I’ve no intent to leave until I have words with the Queen. If her schemes are behind the poison arrow, and her treacherous invitation.”

  Tomm rolled his eyes and backed away from the door. “The Orcs are free, and your revolt begun, King Mud,” Vald grinned through his helm, “You and Tomm are free to be gone, and help them find haven at the farm. I will go on with Sparrow to the high chambers.”

  “Ory has a wagon waiting, as we planned, you old badger.” Tomm replied.

  Mud did not speak, only bowed his head and smiled.

  “So be it. Gird yourselves and make red your wits. There will be blood.”

  Without words they ascended the stair together.

  9

  She knew the Orcs were free. They cowered and plotted in a wagon bound for Ory and Tomm’s farm. She knew Vald and his companions approached. She knew that the moon had changed, and a new epoch was rising. She knew her time was nearing an end. She knew she would die this night. Not die as she did centuries ago, but a true death. She would be more than killed, but destroyed. In this she found comfort, and relished the feeling. Too long had dark magic stayed death’s hand.

  No alarm sounded. No guard was aroused. They were to allow any visitors free roam in the tower, and their very lives depended upon their obedience. Eras, Horn, and their patrol had not yet returned. She could not see their location as yet, but this was the only unknown in her evening’s plans. She hoped they would stay their return, or they might be killed in the battle that was to come. This she did not desire, for no Elf of these times should be punished for the sins of history. And sin she had, as had her father and the Elven nobles of old.

  On this she meditated in her circular chamber, her golden hair flowing in braids to the waist, and a featherlite gown of black lace flowing out around her like a poison flower. Her skin was pale and luminous, and her gentle lips were soft and full in the dull dim. Even in undeath her beauty was beyond telling, and to exist with such beauty in solitary doom was a dark thing indeed. She hummed with predatory lust, and the wondrous release of knowing she would soon have to kill no more.

  While this dire dream unfolded in the high chamber, Vald, Mud and stout ol’ Tomm ascended the spiral stairs with clanging boots and Vald calling out challenges to Lydea and her guard. The armored Elves simply stood and watched as the three passed. Perplexed and smelling a terrible trap, they continued their ascent.

  Vald knew Sparrow was perched in some nook somewhere above. He occasionally sent a glance to this corner or that in search of her, but she would only be seen when she desired. Tonight was a night of reckoning. King Akram had endured the Elves’ elitism too long already. Lydea must have known this, and invited Vald to his doom. She knew, too, that if he were to fall, the people’s confidence in King Akram would falter. Akram, the halfDwarf who showed the world true greatness, was magnanimous. Vald, champion of the West was greater still. The Northmen were a dwindling but proud race, and he who commanded even one of their mighty number could rule a nation.

  “I tire of your game, Elf witch!” Vald cried. The howl echoed terribly, and Tomm flinched.

  Tomm winked. “I see the years haven’t changed you at all, you old goat,”

  “This place reeks of some dark power,” Mud sneered, “let’s be done with it.” So it was they came to the High Door. This iron banded portal was hewn with eldritch carvings and blasphemous glyphs of dead races. Its twisted forms reminded Mud of the bogs, and those green eyes looking back at him from the nothingness. Again he saw his own corpse. A shudder ran down his spine.

  Tomm, too, was shaken by the hideous door. His stout shoulders slumped, and he twirled his great red beard nervously.

  “Well, that ain’t right is it, friends?” His comment broke the silent spell, and Mud straightened. Vald gave one final look to his comrades. In those old grey eyes they saw murderous will. It was a terrible thing to see him in battle, and here they stood literally at death’s door. Vald saw their consent, and that their spines were firm. He said nothing, but turned, pulled the swinging bar upward, and thrust the iron door inward with a mighty kick.

  The open door spilled the only light present into the chamber. It was draped with purple furs and dark red rugs. The air was thick and oily. The room was a huge circle, with a flat ceiling 30 feet above, shrouded in shadow and smoke. At the circle’s center sat Queen Lydea of Hellas. She responded to their entry only by lifting her eyes to meet those of Vald. A terrible, cloying death was heavy around her in folding triangles of invisible dread. Tomm and Mud were stopped in their tracks.

  “Welcome, heroes,” she whispered with a venomous

  sarcasm, “I see you accepted my invitation, Northman.” She was still; weirdly so. “An invitation to death perhaps,” Vald’s voice was strained terribly. His right gauntlet rattled and shook with effort. His was held fast by some spell.

  “You scathe me, Captain of Akram. I wish only to share council, for these are the darkest of times, and change comes to our lands both.”

  Mud’s nerve rose again and he took two great steps forward. Both hands formed knotted fists. “Stay your rage, beast!” Lydea barked. The sound was shrill and sharp, and the air rippled with freakish harmonics. Mud was bashed by some invisible force, and thrown against the wall. He held consciousness, but was shaken.

  “Where was I” she resumed, “Ah yes, change. Did you know, Northman, that once the Elves were a simple folk? We walked the woods and lived peaceful lives. Our music was calm, our hopes bright, and all the old Gods smiled on us in our innocence.”

  Mud began to stand again. Lydea seemed not to notice. “But change came to my people, and we came to know sorcery, and darkness, and greed, and rage. We killed one another for sport, and hated, and fell from grace.” She looked away from Vald, and a tear formed in her glowing grey eye. “We’ve done terrible things, and you are the reckoning.”

  “You’ll be shown the same mercy you showed my

  people, demon!” Mud spat, “None!” He rushed forward, resisting her will utterly, and tackled her into the stone floor. Her frail frame crumpled beneath him weightlessly, and was suddenly gone. Mud looked up baffled, enraged. Lydea stood, undis
turbed, a few feet away.

  “I deserve your rage, savage. It was the Elves who created your accursed race,” Vald was still held fast, and Tomm had no idea what to do.

  “What are you talking about, you fork-tongued snake?” Mud said.

  “We took all of our darkness; our rage, our hate, our

  malice, our greed, and concentrated it into a black ooze

  called Sharoth. Gathered were our human slaves, and unto

  them we delivered this evil. The ooze tore at them, and bent

  their backs, and they screamed for days. When it was done,

  the Orc race was born, and the Elves were made pure.” “Pure evil, perhaps,” Mud hissed. He rose and faced her,

  “I’ve had enough conversation. Kill us if you can, and we will

  be avenged tenfold… Or die here in your hideous fortress

  for your guards to lament!” He jumped at her, and

  backhanded her solidly. She cried out and tumbled to her

  left.

  Vald’s gloved hand came free.

  “Come forth, Fenrir, and drink the blood of generations.

  For those wronged by your so-called noble race, Elf, I call

  upon my blade!” Vald reached over and clasped the Gray

  Wolf. He drew the silver blade forth, and the nine buckles jingled and shook. The steel was pure and clean, and lit the room with refractions. He planted his left heel, and thrust forward with his right foot. He thrust the sword in a spear like jab, but Lydea was fast as lightning, and feinted backward. The tip of the shimmering sword met the end of

  its reach an inch short of her throat.

  “Do your worst, and know that I kill only by curse! My

  lust for death is gone... Kill me if you can!”

  Tomm broke free of his stupor, flipped his hammer into

  an underhand grip, and hurled it at her. It spun through the

  air with a whoosh and struck her squarely in the chest. She

  buckled.

  Mud took his chance, and spun. His hands were clasped

  together into a knurled club of knuckles. On Lydea’s bent

  back he crashed down. She yelped, and dropped to one

  knee. The black gown rustled and waved. Vald took a step

  into his left foot, a man’s height wide was his battle stride.

  Fenrir whirled in a circle, and passed the dark Queen with a

  dark red spray. Vald completed the stroke in a lateral pose,

  holding the mighty sword in horizontal follow through. A

  single drop of black blood slid from the silvery metal, and

  burned with white smoke as it met the floor.

  Lydea reeled at first, but seemed unfazed. She rose and

  opened her arms. Her eyes were no longer gray, but pitch

  black, and lidless, and inhuman. What was Elf in her Vald

  had slain or shocked, and only this creature remained. She

  grinned, and something stirred below her gown. Mud braced from throwing his weight, and Tomm was

  wide eyed with horror. Vald held fast as Lydea revealed

  herself.

  Eight horrible, whiskered black spears unfolded from her

  lacey frock. Razortipped spider’s limbs were they. She rose

  upon them as they opened, and her fingers twitched and

  popped with spellweaving.

  “Behold, the price of our transgressions!” her voice was

  an insectoid, vibrato terror.

  Vald broke his stance, twisted Fenrir into a two handed

  grip, and lifted it behind his helm to a vertical position.

  There he raised his left foot, and hips first he set his weight

  at the creature. The blade followed in a forehand swing. The

  nearest spider leg, wreathed in spines and black needles,

  was hewn utterly. It tumbled to one side and dribbled black

  goo, which burned the rugs.

  Lydea’s lament was a screeching howl that brought

  Tomm to his knees. She extended one pale hand and Vald

  was struck with a spectral blow. He slid across the floor into

  the wall, and his vest of steel scales crushed inward with

  terrible force. The breath was crushed from him. But before

  her hand could close into a deadly fist, Mud struck at Lydea

  again. This time he pulled at her wrist and thrust an elbow

  into her ribs with her own weight. She gasped, and he

  twisted. The entire weight of her, spider legs and all,

  wheeled overhead. She slammed into the stone floor with

  a crack. Her head smote the stones terribly, and her jaw snapped like a twig. Mud was sprawled across the floor from the move, but she was vulnerable.

  Tomm took his moment. He sprinted across the chamber, lifted his hammer, and jumped like a lion onto her. The spider legs twitched with readiness and will though, and met him mid-air. Vald yelled as he saw two of the black

  spears pierce Tomm like a skewer.

  “No!” The Northman regained his breath, tore the

  crumpled cuirass away, and lunged. Fenrir struck true, and

  drove clean through Lydea’s gut. She howled and bent back,

  as Tomm slid from his deadly perch.

  “Rise!” the Queen screamed. Her broken jaw made her a

  true vision of horror.

  Where each drop of blood had fallen, a fat, glossy spider

  the size of a fist appeared. They skittered from side to side

  and leapt like frogs. The first met Mud in the chest and

  stung. He bellowed and grabbed it like a pumpkin, smashing

  it into gore and filth. The sting burned, and he dropped. Four spiders remained, and one of them flew at Tomm.

  The stout man lacked the strength to deflect it, and it stung

  him in the shoulder. At this wound he cried out, and gained

  his feet. He was bleeding terribly, and another fat black

  spider landed on his hip. He shook and perspired with

  death’s approach. The terrors clawed and bit at him, but he

  steeled his nerves as only his kin could. With both hands he

  clutched his iron hammer, and made for the dark Queen

  once more. She hissed, but it was too late. The hammer met

  her skull with a sickening wet thud.

  This was the last of his will, and Tomm stumbled at her side. She lifted her bloody head, meeting Vald’s gaze as he approached. Her hand outstretched, she caught Vald by the neck. With impossible strength she lifted him, all the while lifting a black spear-leg above Tomm. Vald looked into her black eyes as she let fly the leg’s spear-tip, and ended Tomm’s life. The leg pierced his face and chipped the stone

  floor with force.

  “Stop me, Northman! End this evil!” Her voice was

  trembling and strained. Half her skull was smashed in. Mud’s eyes darkened nearby. The spider stung him again,

  near the neck, and the hot venom went to his brain. The

  battle was lost. He crushed the second insect, but death

  was closing in.

  “By Akram’s hand I will oblige you, demon!” Fenrir swung

  about, severing the arm that held him. Lydea was numb,

  though. With her remaining hand she batted Vald away,

  and his mighty sword spun into the air. It landed in some

  remote shadow with a clatter. Vald tried to shake off the

  shock, but his helm was bent in and crushing his temple

  terribly. Blood blurred his vision as the Queen approached

  with malice.

  “Stop this madness!” a new voice called with power.

  Vald tried to turn to see, but his crushed armor made it

  impossible.

  “What horror have you become, mistress?” Lydea

  stopped her advance, and turned.

  The voice belonged to Horn,
the elven warrior. Lydea studied her with twitching eyes and a gored skull. There was

  a bizarre, long moment.

  “Eras and my squad are slain, mistress, an all-too well

  planned ambush,” Horn began with an even, courageous

  tone. “But it seems you have death on the menu today. You

  shame us.”

  Lydea was clearly cut by Horn’s words. Vald and Mud

  were wide eyed with confusion, but held their tongues. “Horn, you’ve returned at a most terrible time,.” “That I see now, my Queen. Your tyranny has made you

  vile.”

  “There is more evil than Orc slavery at my red hands,

  Horn my niece.” Lydea lowered onto her human legs.

  “There is a curse you know too well. A curse that bears more

  shame than all the Orc blood in the West can inflict on me.” “What curse, mistress? What have you done?” “When created were the Orcs, to inhabit our own

  failings, my father set in motion a safeguard, such that no

  Elf and Orc could ever make child. For that child would be

  an abomination.”

  “No…” Horn trailed off. Her arms went limp, she took a

  step back, and was shaken.

  “Do not hear her words, stranger!” Vald barked with the

  last of his strength.

  “SILENCE!” Lydea howled. Vald crushed into the wall

  again and spat red. Through one swollen eye he caught a

  silver glint in the gloom. The Gray Wolf. If only he could... “Yes, child,” Lydea resumed, “you see it even now, what

  I have done. Your hate is mine to cherish. The curse makes

  a smoldering coal of any spawn of Elf and Orc. It burns in

  the womb and is stillborn in fire and ash.”

  “You did this to me? To Karn? To my child…” Horn went

  pale. Lydea watched her.

  Vald inched sideways, and caught sight of Fenrir. He was

  within two arm lengths. He slid again, unnoticed. “I trusted you, served you!”

  “But spite never left your heart, girl! You knew dark

  powers were at work!”

  “This is beyond power! You shame our race! No Elf can