The Shield of Hannar (Runehammer Novels Book 2) Page 6

  Before Akram came three great kings in one line; there was the man called Ethred, his son Uthred, and his dwarven heir Akkred. The third of these is perhaps the most interesting, for with dwarven wife did Uthred share his royal bed. She was a noble and beloved queen named Keel. Her folk were none other than the door-cutters of Tem, the deep delving dwarves that held the world’s backbone safe from all the horrors that lurk below the foundations of Alfheim. Their union made mighty the good people of that time, but laid low the deposed elves.

  So it was that Akram, only a dozen years hence, had inherited the crown from the son of Uthred, King Akkred. His ties to the Temmish were solid as stone, his blood a blend of all the best of men, and his rule just with the aid and council of aged scholars.

  But deposed was not a state beloved by the once-noble elves, and ever did they pine in shadow for restoration, or even vengeance. This aching wound found its root in the treachery of the spider Lydea, and in the hideous hate of Red Fang, whose name would soon come to symbolize the black vexation of the forbidden underworld.

  Akram, though, strode above all this. Even in his bright-eyed youth he made a good king. Barely a century under his boots had he, but his judgements were measured and his hand firm. And yet, Akram knew of war only what he had learned as a plated archer and hammerman in the campaigns of Helm and the frontiers of Kath. A score of battles only had he endured, so when Mars approached with his brow in a knot, uncertainty hung in the air like salt.

  This was the context of Akram’s first great war, and somehow he knew this. Ruin, that gleaming and horrible weapon of Mars’, caught his mind’s eye in the knowing. In the reflection of that endless blade saw he all that would come next: shadow, and wrath, and deeds crimson with inevitable savagery.

  “Mars!” Akram bellowed, seeing the warrior of Fort Friendship in the open-air court, “A hero’s boots grace the rock of Ramthas! Mugs!” A cheer arose, but Mars did not raise a fist, or laugh, and the mugs were brought in a quiet.

  Mars walked up to the great and bright-eyed king, and took a knee. Behind him was Anna, Hunnin’s wife. She smiled and bowed low.

  “Rise, you old badger,” Akram prodded. He tugged the dwarf up by one arm, and was surprised by the weight of the warrior. He was like a boulder.

  “Pardon my mess and blade, my King,” Mars apologized, looking the Falcon right in the eye, “but I bring ill news, and an urgent errand.”

  “News is never ill, my friend, only the grim work that follows. Lift your heart for now, as I’ve not seen a dwarf as fierce as you in a year! Gods, you’ve become grizzled as iron!” This lifted Mars’ heart, and for a moment he forgot the horror in the woods of Ell, and the rocky cairn of Hunnin his best friend.

  The three of them, Akram’s queen Ezra, and the elite guard all sat to take a mug. The elite were men and women alike, of many shapes, and they bore a sunlit air. Their armor was polished and bright, and each carried the blocky hammer of Akram’s sigil in an iron belt loop.

  The Gar in the royal larder was the finest Mars had ever known. It was golden and clear, but rich and crisp with the plump hops of the shipbuilders of Port Frost. He emptied his octagonal mug in two great quaffs, smiled at Anna, and began.

  “My King, the elves have broken the treaty. Fort Friendship is no more, and this is the least of our woes. Some new darkness has come into being, with a Red Captain at its fore.”

  The wide-brimmed braziers of the chamber burned low into the night. A slow breeze wandered through the granite windows and angular arches of Akram’s hall. A sympathetic arm ‘round Anna’s lovely shoulders had the king, and he heard the tale. Mugs littered the broad oak table.

  “What of Hannar?” Akram asked at last. Anna’s eyes lowered.

  “We’ve no idea,” she answered, “He took to the woods with a wrathful heart. He moves like an elk through the dells, so we knew we must come here first. But he is my son, and tough as leather. I’ve all faith in Udin he will not only survive out there, but seek out this Red Captain…”

  Akram squeezed her shoulder with a gentle love. “Then we share your son’s purpose, and with a brigade of my finest. Word will be sent to Uthiel, Queen of Kath. If war she wants, then she’ll have it. If these traitors be rogue, then she’ll send a flight of archers to aid us in rooting them out.”

  Mars bowed his head. It was a wonder to behold a decisive king.

  “But first, we sleep! No deed should be undertaken by candlelight in a mess of mugs!” He smiled a wide, true smile. Here his kingship found its root, for that smile brightened every heart at the table.

  “I am not done yet my King!” said one of the elite, rising from his bench, a sloshing, brimming mug in his blocky fist. “This golden Gar I drink for Hunnin! At Dagger Coast he was my captain, and a great one! We go in his name, and all the brave of Fort Friendship! With bright hearts!” The mug he splashed onto his beard and guzzled in an instant. Such a feat few could muster, especially late in the evening, and a cheer arose.

  That night they all slept well, save grumpy old Mars. He leaned on an oaken column in the firelight, and slowly sharpened the endless edge of Ruin with a grim look.

  “You’ll be avenged yet, my brother.” The orange light danced across the tremendous blade in rivulets of reflection. The groove was clean and silver as the moon, etched in bluish runes and filigree. The antler guard braced on one thigh, he edged it to a deadly perfection. A razor made for one gut, sharp enough to hack that hideous obelisk in two if need be. Its shape drifted and taunted him behind his eyes as he finally fell asleep, only to dream of his Brann’s death in that lonely glen. Only to dream of those rubbery black whips unmaking all the right of the world. Only to dream of the Red Captain’s eyes as he was run through by the inevitable wrath of Ruin.

  14

  Having annihilated the soldiers at Fort Friendship, the Red Captain had only begun his campaign of terror. The elves of his time had proven impotent and cowardly. Silently they watched as the impudent races spread and multiplied like rats on their lands.

  There was a time when he was like them: paralyzed with inaction. There was a time when he was mortal. That time had passed, for unto him was delivered the harbinger of a future undreamed of: The Devourer. At least, that is what he called it.

  It was not a creature, or even a being. It was a sort of place or phenomenon. At the coiling fulcrum of time and space it twisted and twitched with meaningless music. On black lakes of infinite hells it slid and slurped through the eons in the nightmares of men, and spun impossibly at the center of all things. It was the eater and the scream, the poison rain and the choking toad. It was the eel behind his eye and the howling silence of cold starless space.

  And it was his master.

  Fortunate are the weaklings of the world, ignorant and irrelevant in the womb of futility. They know nothing of the frigid faces of the true gods, who live above and outside the black dimensions that govern our titanic universe with cold, inevitable hunger. The Red Captain was no such mewling, and dared the pits below Xanos to reveal their terrors.

  Only with spell and shield did he survive that abode of evil, and he returned from his pilgrimage immortal and touched by the slithering whips of The Devourer. He returned bent on the uprooting of the world. A dead world would make a fitting welcome for the god-thing in folding triangles of insanity, and he would make it so.

  This was the least you need know of the Red Captain to understand what came next; he made way to the Plain of Kellan.

  Two weeks’ march was it for most from the Greenway, but the winds of hate pushed him and his dead squadron forward with a stallion’s haste. They did not run, or ride skeletal mares, but moved in a sort of coiling smoke. They left little track and less sound.

  Within a few nights they topped Fist Rock, and looked down on the forbidden lands. The plain sloped upward to the impossible sheer face of Duros-Tem, the Iron Wall, and ghosts moaned on the wind.

  Of this journey, only one mortal soul had knowledge. Only one w
ild-eyed hunter had the foolish courage to pursue such a force. Only one avenger was so hungry with wrath and blind fury to dash through the trees like a tiger hunting its prey: Hannar, Hunnin’s son.

  15

  It began as many quests do: a disheveled schoolboy stumbled into a fruit cart, spilling a mess of melons and gourds in a clatter. At the head of a column of gleaming pikemen strode King Akram of Ramthas, and the boy was beside himself, grinning like a camel.

  The good King chuckled, helped the star-shocked boy to his feet, and received a cheer from the city yard. Ramthas was built in a series of stone chevrons that flanked the great rock formation at the main tower’s head. It was blocky, irregular, and nestled in the foothills like a gulch. High thin banners drifted from oak poles thirty feet long, while silver etchings bewildered the eye on every tower door and gate-bench.

  From the main front gate strode the King, and took pause. Words were not counted among his many strengths, but inevitable at this moment. He turned back toward the balustrades of the fortress, and met the gaze of two thousand citizens.

  “Good people,” he began in his normal kingly tone. But his momentum broke, and he was distracted. High on that craggy breeze was caught a great bird of prey. It was fast, and smaller than an eagle. It darted and soared in weaving wonders of flight. A shrill cry broke the moment.

  The King smiled at the sight of this.

  “Heroic family of Ramthas, Rock of Ages, Kathic freedom fighters! Hear me!” The crowd cheered like wild. Only a warrior king could know to call those careful words, to say so little of tradition and make it matter.

  “We go to answer the murderous elves of Fort Friendship,” he began with a grim change, “and justice will be done.” There was a long pause, and all fell silent.

  “For all the years my Father cared for this wondrous place, no war broke ‘tween elvenkind and the men and dwarves of Duros. So noble a deed I’ll not know, it seems!” He let himself think, and smiled at the boy, who stood tall.

  “But if war is what they crave, they’ll find not vengeance, or rage, or an eager sword, but the keen, patient, wise and righteous shield of the people of Ramthas Rock!” Boots were banged on cheese boards, spoons on pans, and great mountain voices raised in answer.

  “We go to find out what happened, and we’ll send word the moment we know. Until then, remain vigilant. The mountains have made you strong! Show me!”

  At this they went solemn, and united in a deep roar. A hundred or more young warriors stood forward, and took the knee with helm under arm. Akram’s name they grunted in unison. The old ways held fast.

  Akram paused the march with a raised fist. The crowd hushed. He walked, frowning and dour, over to the warrior troupe. They were stone still. One by one he examined them. His brow was a knot, and his disapproving beard flared forward like a horse’s tail.

  Then finally, he stopped in the center of them. From side to side glanced he, and let fly a battle cry. It was a simple, short barking yell, like a bear falling from a tree. All the soldiers jumped to their feet, slammed inward in a heap, and embraced their King. He hugged every one of them, and laughed, and they lifted him up and over like a barrel of Gar.

  Even Anna, dark with worry, smiled at that moment, and knew this King would lead them to her son, and she would be at his side.

  Again, the King, laughing, gave a great bark. The soldiers went rigid again, to one knee, and the gates opened. From Ramthas marched they and headed southwest to Fort Friendship… or whatever smoldering doom remained of it.

  Four days’ march went swiftly by and the decimated fort was in view. The scene was grim, crows circled low above the ramparts, and a gloom hung above the bodies like an impatient reaper. The scene was untouched from a fortnight before save by the vermin and birds. They had picked at the noble souls and had their share, but the enemy left no dead. Mars shuddered.

  Slowly, solemnly, they picked through the rubble. King and soldier alike did the dark work of burial. Helms were hung, boots tied, eyes gently closed. A full complement of dwarves and men lay slain there, more than fifty in all.

  Mars could feel his blood heating. The King sensed this and comforted him with a broad hand. No words broke the quiet.

  At length, one of Akram’s elite strode forth, and the burials were complete. He was called Hauser, a woodsman by trade and master tracker.

  “My King,” he began. The words cracked through the funeral silence like an ice bath. Akram nodded and bade him go on. “A track, arriving from the southwest, and departing out at the northeast corner, but with a group of dwarves in the fray.”

  “Our company, as I told you,” Mars muttered. “We made our stand half-day’s walk that way, at the edge of the Nellman Groves.”

  “We tend those fallen first,” Akram announced without hesitation. His rage was seething, but his bright brow and green eyes cooled the scowl.

  Hauser rose and mobilized the Elite. They were a brigade of fifteen scale-clad warriors, each with bow, quiver, and longhammer. They followed the track out toward the Groves, and Mars drug his boots. He did not want to return to that place.

  He got his wish.

  Not half the distance to the resting place of Wrimm, and Scratch, and Brann, Hauser raised his fist and crouched. Movement ahead. The column halted. Akram squinted in the afternoon glare.

  Ahead, at the edge of the woods, something very large writhed and waved among the tree trunks. It was hard to make out, but with patience the company caught a clear look at last. Like a giant hydra or great wavering tangle of cobras, a cluster of snake-like shapes danced among the trees. They coiled and whipped and wrapped ‘round the oaks with wet slapping sounds. One curled and twitched a moment in the clear, its underside was visibly adorned with rows upon rows of tiny hooked barbs.

  “Gods,” Akram hissed.

  “It grows with each day my King,” Mars whispered, lowering his head a bit. “They were but eels and whips when we fought. Udin’s Hand, they’re huge.”

  “Hauser, Kray, Whitefeather. You three double back. We follow the track of the attackers.” The King was stern and no longer soft. This was a peril beyond the normal world. “Mind your backs, lads.”

  The three warriors nodded and made off quietly. The rest followed. The track was faint, barely readable, and led to a bluff two days beyond. From there the group could survey the town of Englemoor in the distance. The track vanished.

  “No sign beyond here,” Hauser reported.

  “Why lay waste to a garrison, then simply make off for parts unknown?” Anna asked. She scanned the horizon with a mother’s worry. “What is brewing here, my Lords?”

  “Not war,” Mars retorted with a huff, “this is sorcery.”

  Akram said nothing. His whiskers stood on end. Then he flinched, and leaned forward on one knee, squinting into the distance. “What in blazes…” He pointed. His knotted arm was thick as a tree trunk, and clad in segmented brass plates. Each plate was hinged into the next, and chisel-etched with the chevron inlay of Ramthas Rock. It was a sight to behold, and commanded the attention of the entire company.

  They all turned, and strained their eyes, for Englemoor was still barely a lump on the far horizon of hill and hedgerow. From that spot rose one thin column of dark smoke. As they brought it to focus, something moved, and one of the taller buildings crumbled before their eyes.

  It was the high hall of Grimwald. That tower was a four-story masterpiece of the Ardenmoor days: stone and pine all spiraling upward to high thin parapets and a ring of thin red banners. Now it crumbled, slumping into a heap and vanishing in the remote roofline without sound.

  “Hauser, up front. Kray at the tail. Make haste, warriors!” Akram was barely finished with this order before hopping down from his rocky perch, assisting Anna, who needed no help, and bounding forward. Mars slung Ruin on his shoulder like a lodge pole and joined the run.

  In less than an hour they were at Englemoor’s outer wall. The sun was low now, and long amber shadows yawned t
hrough the billowing smoke that arose from days-old fires. The town was in complete ruin… A husk. The outer wall was crumbled to tatters in a dozen places, but no military occupied or marched or barked. There was an ominous, low quiet that hung in the scorched air. The wind was rotten and musty.

  For one brief moment, the breeze rose, and the smoke slid away. Anna caught a glimpse of the opening causeway of the town, which was a wide cobbled pave. There were no bodies, no movement, and every other building had its walls exploded out or smashed inward. It made no sense, and reason could not confine it.

  “No sound,” Akram gestured, mouthing the words. He lay an open hand slowly downward, the gesture for stealth and wary eyes. When he moved, they all moved, and no other time. Only the occasional jangle of armor betrayed their steps as they entered the ruin of Englemoor.

  16

  It ended as so many great chases do: a little boy was breathing fire.

  His lungs were like the dwarven forges of yore, a bellows heating his veins. His thighs were molten rubber on wobbly rattan knees. One boot was flapping apart like a sandwich thrown into the street, and every knuckle was bloodied and raw. Hannar, Hunnin’s son, gave chase. He was like a feral predator smelling blood. His hunger was beyond mere sustenance; he hungered for vengeance, and was too young to understand its dark effect on those who lose themselves in its throes.

  Thoughtless, he pressed forward. He had caught a faint track from Fort Friendship heading east. Every so often the track vanished entirely, and he had to go on instinct, or trace the subtle scent of elven steel. The process they used to burnish and harden their breastplates left a coppery aroma on the metal, and in numbers that smell could be caught by a dwarf of the old blood. Hannar was this and more. He had left all he ever cared for on this quest, and did not intend to fail.

  Tracked they he over hill and dale beyond the Greenway’s rolling slopes. Through that bouldered alluvial plain called Nuras’ Nest, and ever eastward to the foothills of Urin Pinnacle. There they had camped, but made no fire and cooked no meal. He gained on them. They slowed at last on the Plain of Kellan, at Fist Rock. Much later this place would be called Siege Rock, and the Plain of Bones. But that great war had not yet come. For now, the scene was plenty to behold.