Mud and Horn, Sword and Sparrow (Runehammer Books Book 1) Page 9

  21

  Horn’s arm was broken.

  Mud wiped burnt blood from his one eye, shielding her. Akram, King of Alfheim, on one knee heaved for breath

  through bloody teeth.

  Vald, the Silver Storm, stood at the head, matching the

  World Killer Manac in single combat. The demon would hurl

  spell and let fly claw and fire in whirls and sweeps, but the

  Captain held his feet. With Fenrir he parried and evaded,

  and cut the demon like a tree trunk. His armor was

  scorched, smoldering, split, and clanging like a beggar’s cup.

  His eyes were fixed on Manac like a hunting lion, though,

  and no power Manac possessed seem beyond the Captain’s

  defense. In truth, though, Vald was as near death as the rest

  of them. He simply let no weakness show. If duty demanded

  it, he would die standing stick straight, rigid as a dead oak,

  and make good on his oaths.

  For the moment, the fight continued. Above the din of

  battle, the great spell of Manac spun and grew and writhed.

  It was a green sun cloaked in black, choking fumes. Like a

  boiled octopus it coiled and convulsed and jerked. Its only

  purpose was to end the world and clear a path for the

  Children of the Meteor, Manac’s mad child-race. This

  purpose seemed imminent, and Manac knew it. As he

  fought he laughed and roared with devilish pleasure. “Lay eyes, ye doomed, on my works!” he bellowed,

  “Beyond the ages, unbound, Erat-dor Janush Tem, the Lord

  of Lies, Blood Boiler! I am the beginning and the end! Gaze

  on my works and die!”

  Just then one of Manac’s ragged hands met Vald’s throat,

  and he gasped like a fish. With the other hand, the demon

  king unleashed a black bolt of death, which struck the

  Falcon King like a cannonball. This proved more than the

  Dwarf could resist, and he clattered backward in a spray of

  blood and teeth. When he hit the stone slab, the sound was

  a terror, and the courage of the company for a second

  wavered. No foe living or dead had ever toppled the Lord of

  Duros-Tem.

  “Devil!” Mud cried, seeing Akram motionless. He lunged

  forward and tackled the demon’s armored knees, but the

  tyrant stood like a castle tower in his place, and Mud

  seemed to bounce off. Horn screamed, bracing her

  shattered arm and hurling a knife at the enemy. This found

  purchase in his chest, but with his free hand he pulled loose

  the missile and returned it in a flash. The blade sprouted

  from Horn’s gut like an arrow, and she buckled over. Vald dropped free of the choke hold, and in a second’s

  glance found his kin near defeat. He knew Mud had sent

  Sparrow forward in time for their one last hope: a

  mysterious weapon called Red Fang. As death drew near, all

  his doubt and dying faded to silence. He gave his faith to

  Mud, and to his King. He inhaled in slow motion, seeing

  droplets of blood fall weightlessly in the hellish green air. Great warriors have many talents, and many skills, but

  paramount of these is the will to form an intent unbroken

  by weakness. So Vald the Captain looked in himself to that

  place where the warrior dwells: beyond pain, beyond

  doubt, beyond limits. He looked there and found that

  glowing coal of resolve that had fueled his life and his

  deeds, and it did not fail him.

  In his heart, he formed a true thought; a true intent:

  Sparrow, my little Silvi, if you yet live, now is the time of our

  need.

  Sparrow, my little bird, return to me.

  Set your heart in my hand and let us be done with death.

  He held his tears, and even his love he lay down for this

  second… One last explosion of valor and doom to end it all.

  He released his sword, and spread his armored fingers on

  the marble at his feet.

  Sparrow, my true friend, if you yet live, now is the time.

  NOW!

  At that instant magic took its root, and made due on old

  pacts and powers. Above Vald, in the greenish air, there was

  a spectral ripple and arcing of energy. With no fanfare or

  warning, Sparrow came blasting into view, wielding a

  tremendous redbladed sword like a woodsman’s axe. She

  swung downward wildly, tears in her eyes, and the blade

  rang against the marble slab like an iron bell before she

  even noticed her surroundings.

  Vald looked up, and gasped, for she was a grown woman

  now. On her cheek she wore the trials of a life unknown, and he felt a pang of sorrow. But there was no room for sorrow in him. He had pushed out every corner and shadow

  and made metal his mind.

  Sparrow’s hands were far too small to hold the massive

  blade, and it bounced from the stone impact into the air.

  She landed in a confused clatter, collapsing unconscious. Vald’s fingers pushed, his boots dug, his armor became

  weightless, and he lunged like a wild animal cornered.

  Blood sprayed from his side in a black mist with the effort,

  and in slow motion he flew towards Red Fang. One knee

  forward, one hand outstretched he was like a relay runner

  in flight. This saw Manac the World Killer, and for the first

  time his eyes grew wide with horror.

  The sword reflected, and shone, and swirled and gleamed

  with eldritch runes and folded crimson. It seemed almost to

  pause with some ghostly intent, poised to be taken up by

  the Silver Storm and brought to bear. At that moment, all

  the war crimes and deeds of doom committed in the War

  of the Wall came to collect their debts. The soul of Red Fang

  the warrior found grip in Red Fang the sword, and the time

  of his rest was finally at hand.

  So it was Vald took hold of that weapon-warrior, ghostblade, and brought it arcing sideways in one mighty swing

  with all his life’s blood. His muscles split and his bones

  splintered with the effort, and he howled in unison with the

  Elven killer Red Fang for one last assault.

  The attack found its mark on the terrified demon king,

  and through one arm continued cutting. His black gut split open, and all rot and ruin burst forth in a filthy spray. The blade tore him from shoulder to hip, and whatever supernatural lifeforce drove him to malice spilled onto the black marble like a bag of rotted potatoes. He still lived, and Red Fang lost its glow. Vald fell and his chest heaved with

  exhaustion.

  As Manac struggled to live, the great green spell above

  him twitched, and dipped, and shrank. As quickly as it had

  come, it vanished, and only a wisp of smoke and longringing thunderclap stood evidence it was ever there at all.

  Manac looked up, and grimaced. His rage was matched only

  by his closeness to death. He lifted his one remaining arm,

  made a gesture, and vanished. The fight was over, and good

  had prevailed.

  “He’ll cast no more spells, if he lives at all,” Mud

  mumbled, shuffling over to help Horn. She held a stiff upper

  lip, but was clearly in agony. Her left arm was broken in at

  least three places, and bore an eldritch scorch mark that

  blistered and cracked. In these bloody cracks, forbidden

  letters and glyphs formed, and her veins turned black with


  poison.

  Meanwhile, Sparrow regained her feet, and knelt beside

  her champion. Her eyes were framed with crow’s feet, and

  Vald looked at her with a terrible love. There they crumpled,

  straining to fight countless wounds to body and spirit. There

  were no words for their love, ageless and dilated by eons

  that passed in an instant. She was a child no more. All these details faded to dust when they noticed the still

  form of Akram, the Falcon King. He lay in a widening pool of

  crimson, his blocky fingers still locked around the hilt of

  Angrid. But the dwarvish gleam of that legendary sword had

  faded. Mud let out a whimper, and let flow his acid tears.

  No victory could matter, no revenge would sate. Centuries

  of war, treachery, betrayal, and doom had washed off this

  King like rain on a stone. He was kind, generous, and easy

  to know. He drank with the farmers and swam with the

  fishermen. His fleet of maiden-browed ships made golden

  the seas of the East. From ruin he wrested prosperity, and

  from hate he found love. His courage was that of the first

  men: unblinking, but free of malice. He had the love of the

  dwarves and the respect of the elves. Children clung to his

  boots, and kings kissed him on bearded cheek. No dirge

  could do justice: The King of Alfheim was dead.

  22

  A dwarven funeral is no small thing.

  On their first visit to Akram’s Throne, the castle called Anvil Rock, Vald and his company had little time to see anything, or know much of the Dwarven city. They were in the rush and whirl of Queen Lydea’s death, and en route to the tent of Kazgat the Hermit. This time, though, they returned broken, barely alive, and in desperate need of long rest. These needs they set aside, for in Vald’s arms lay the broken body of Akram, the Falcon King. Bleeding, pale as a ghost, and scathed with terrible grief, the Silver Storm stood tall.

  As he walked the marble ways into the great hall of Anvil Rock, highest pinnacle in Ramthas, the pain of the realm grew to a din of roars and vows. The warriors ground their teeth, and the women held their heads in woe. The children panicked and wailed, while the eagles gathered and hung their mighty heads on perches of stone. The wind settled to stillness, and the sun shone like a chest of gold. It was as if the world itself both grieved and rejoiced. A hero’s death is both tragedy and triumph, for their deeds are then ready to be counted, but their smiles and company are terribly missed.

  Vald strode, unwavering, to the high seat. There waited Akram’s kin and court: Kel and Brimm of Westburg, the maiden Ory, Queen Fria, and the warrior council of Hadur, Ossirian and Ren. These dwarves stood like platinum statues; firm and upright, their eyes filled with pride, and courage, and silver tears. Sun Stone they had called him. Though the sun was bright and warm, the air was cold and still and thick with sorrow.

  The sight of Akram was too much for Hadur, the oldest of them. He smote his blocky hammer on the stone and roared like a lion. “This deed will not go unavenged, my King,” he cried. The raspy thunder of his voice echoed through the endless stone halls and bit into every soul present. “Hero of heroes! King of Alfheim! Hand of Justice! Our King! He walks the halls of our fathers, a shining star of valor! Who else more fit to feast forever at the table of the Gods! OUR KING!” He collapsed, openly weeping. His grey beard draped onto the stone.

  Our King! The cry was taken up. OUR KING! Again, but many voices. OUR KING! Ten thousand hearts opened, and the chant grew to a somber song. OUR KING! So a great thunder was raised in Anvil Rock that day, and Akram was set ablaze in the finest warship in the fleet. Ten thousand archers fired their burning arrows as he floated out into Duros Lake, and there found rest. A row of shields were planted in the lakeshore like grave tablets, and on them hung thousands of ribbon-like papers. Each was a vow, or a tale, or gratitude, or grieving. So many were these it was like a strange, waving forest of parchment, dotted with kneeling maidens and stoic captains.

  For forty days the city of Ramthas celebrated, and mourned after that day. A reign of 400 years was at its end. Great towering black banners flew over Anvil Rock, and the eagles were seen no more. So many stories were yelled, and so many mugs of fine Red Gar quaffed, the city was all but empty of supplies by the wake’s end. Quiet returned slowly, but never glee. A dark age had begun, for a King of his greatness would leave a terrible void in the soul of the land. For this period, the time travelers found rest, and healed their countless wounds. In the cathedral of Ramthas they were made whole, and they prayed for Akram’s rest each day. The world had been saved, but grief seemed their only reward.

  “I’ve had enough rest,” Vald mumbled one morning, pushing his wooden bowl forward. Mud and Horn sat with him, while Silvi was off at chores.

  “You look as grim as a goat, old friend,” Mud returned, smiling. His empty eye socket was healed over, and dark with meaning. Orcs were not welcome in the high city, but he strode as a hero among the people, and children flocked to him to poke at his skin.

  “It isn’t over.” Vald looked up.

  “No.” Mud finished his breakfast, cleaned his spoon with a cloth and made tidy the table. At last, he replied, “one more task remains.”

  Horn caught their meaning. “The demon yet lives. Our good king lay in the deep of Duros and that filth yet lives. No doubt drawing up another doomsday.” She circled her bad shoulder, and leaned on Mud with her braid on his arm.

  “...and holed up in Saltfrost Keep,” Vald acknowledged, “what they’re calling Castle Manac.” he spit, then smiled apologetically to the others. There was little mirth.

  “Saltfrost is all but impregnable,” Mud replied, “those frozen bogs hold the bones of a dozen armies. The stories…”

  “To the hells with the bloody stories!” Vald slammed one iron fist on the table, bouncing Mud’s tidy settings to mess. “I care not for my my own fate, or even if Manac intends more evil. This is not over, and I am not done. I mean to march on Saltfrost and finish this.”

  “And lie next to Akram in the deep? For bitter vengeance?”

  “No. For honor. This cannot be a world where the brightest of us can be slain and no cost is paid. Manac’s head will rest on a spike, and Saltfrost will be a garrison of Queen Fria’s reign. The scar will heal and the world will forget, but we will know right was done, and we can walk the great halls with Akram someday without shame.”

  There was a long quiet.

  Silvi walked up from the hallway, bucket in hand. “Good day, my captain,” she said, winking at Vald. She was in her late twenties now, and beautiful. She wore a simple dress with waist clasp and shoulders bare. Mud smiled wide and patted the bench next to him. She sat, and he placed his giant Orcish arms around both women.

  “Well, old Silver Storm, you and Fenrir will have to wait one more day to march and fight and grumble. I have a beauty on each arm, and mean to get out of this dismal church for one more afternoon of sun and cups in the city of Dwarves.” He leaned his head back and looked smug at Vald, who began to soften. Silvi snuggled against the Orc King, eyeing Vald with open meaning. She loved him, and was no longer too young to do so.

  “As you wish, you tusky oaf, I’ll have your hide at a game of Daggers, and we’ll drink to the Falcon King.”

  “No! Today we drink to each other! Our lives are not to be lived in the shadow of grief and doom! Good Akram was not a brooding man! He raises a mug from the table of the Gods! Be bright, you cranky old Northman!” Mud showed his huge Orcish teeth in a grin, “if we are to die for honor, then let us do it with glad hearts, and loving women! I will not skulk and mourn for my final days, if these be they!”

  Horn smacked him playfully, and he swept both girls up. He stood, carrying them wriggling and laughing out into the sunlight. Vald followed, leaving his armor in the cathedral to gleam alon
e.

  23

  A company of the brave went with them.

  They marched from Ramthas in a column of 200 spears. The army could not be committed, for though it was not uttered, this mission was certain death. The Saltfrost was a place told of in hushed nightmares. Legend said the curling fingers of thousands of fallen warriors dotted the icy ground there like mushrooms in crystal silence… that death awaits all who dare that place.

  There are times, though, when it is more important to stand tall than to survive. If even one blade found its way to Manac’s black throat, and word reached Anvil Rock that the king was avenged, the growing dark would be dispelled, and good folk could take joy in small things again. To the mighty, this is worth a few hundred lives. So they marched.

  At the column’s head strode Vald the Northman. On his broad belt he slung Red Fang the ghost sword, and Fenrir the Grey Wolf. He was painted in red and gold, and a leopard pelt trimmed his great cloak with shimmering wonder. His helmet he wore visor-down, to spare the people his grim expression. He would abide their celebration, and adornments, and ritual...but his intent was dark as death itself.

  Aside the Silver Storm walked Mud the Orc King in his banded leather coat and black scabbard. He wore a necklace of bulky red beads, and a headband of solid platinum. Behind him brandishing 10 foot pikes were a company of Orc freemen. Their armor was simple, but in those dim eyes shone a newfound pride: the hauberk of freedom, and King renewed. On their pauldrons was smeared bloody streaks, as is their war custom, and they had white paint below their eyes like jungle hunters.

  On a white pony rode the girl called Sparrow, Silvi was her name to the common folk. She was Vald’s squire and guardian. Ever her keen eyes scanned back and forth, watching the sky and the birds for subtle clues and portents. Her green gleam rest in cloak’s hood shadow, and on her shoulder was strung a quiver of indigo arrows. Her bow was a gift from the Queen, and etched with every manner of Dwarvish rune and weave.

  Finally, sullen and furious with athletic presence, strode Horn the elven avenger, the Spiderslayer. She was mostly bare save tank and briefs, and let flow a grand blue cloak off one knobby shoulder. Her hips were massive tree trunks for her size, and her knuckles were scarred and blocky like a pit fighter. Her golden hair was braided into dozens of tiny strands, and the lids of her eyes were blackened with coal dust, as was now her custom. That glare turned children to whimper and men to swoon. One fist she held at belt’s center, and the other hand flowed next to her with feminine grace. She was a vision of all a woman could be.