Dark Magic (15 page)

Turning northward, he drew a great breath and approached the roots of a mountain, a sheer face of shale mixed with granite boulders as big as oxcarts. He gushed flame so hot it was vaporous and lavender in color. The stone it touched melted to slag, and then flowed like wax. He stepped inside the tunnel his breath created and more flame gushed. The molten rock lapped his scaly feet, but did no harm. No heat could harm him, not even that of the flaming elemental lords who often bubbled up in hatred from the Earth’s core to accost him. Lakes of magma were as warm baths to him. Yellow licking flames were as cool breezes.

Soon, only his fantastically long tail could be seen, and then that too vanished and he was gone, digging through the rock by melting everything before him. Nothing could withstand the heat of his flame.

Fafnir did not go to rescue his mate. He knew it was too late for that. But there was time left yet for vengeance, before the world ended.

Of that he was certain.

Chapter Fifteen

Gnomes of the Deep

Of the fallen Kindred, only Modi had left behind remains enough to carry back to the Earthlight. They buried the rest of the charred bodies in shallow, rocky graves.

Not all the miners were dead, those Modi had left behind on guard in the ruby tunnel still lived. But all told, of the entire company, less than a dozen stood and drew breath.

There wasn’t much in the way of treasure in the chamber. A few adventuring lords must have perished here in the past, causing Kindred with wiser heads to seal the area with a plug. The lack of treasure was disappointing, but they were disappointed even more by the fact there was no easy exit upward from the dragon’s lair to the Earthlight. Perhaps, if they had leathery wings and could have flapped up a thousand feet to the distant ceiling, they could have found an exit, but there was none for ground-crawling creatures. They would have to leave by fighting their way past the kobolds.

Brand was the only true warrior among them now that they had lost Modi. Leadership had automatically fallen to him, even though he was not one of the Kindred. He was not completely comfortable with their trust and the position of command, but he understood it. Their leader had died and he had the title of dragon-slayer to add to his accomplishments. He was a lord of the River Folk who wielded great magic. If not him, who else could lead them out of the Everdark?

At the urging of the Kindred, Brand donned the chainmail that went with the shield he bore. He prepared for battle as best he could, shrugging his way into the long-dead Kindred knight’s heavy shirt of chain, which was too broad of shoulder and which barely reached down to his knees. He circled the biggest belt he could find around his waist and still wore the leather leggings of the mechnicians that Gamal had provided. The leggings weren’t as good as real armor, but they would have to do.

Telyn’s soot-blackened face was tight and strained as she cinched up every part of his armor personally. She had insisted on it. Their encounter with the dragon had taken all the smiles out of her. She took her job as his second more seriously than ever before. He could tell that she did not want to lose him, but at the same time she understood completely that she had to risk his life to have a chance to see the distant Sun again. With Modi and half the miners dead, their odds against the kobolds were worse than ever.

The Kindred debated, and at last decided to take the last of the Sigrid’s eggs with them, dragging it behind on ropes, as it was too big to carry. It would slow them down, but they felt it would be an even better gift for Hallr than the head of the dragon that had killed Modi.

The group took time for a final meal and a benediction for the dead.

It was then, as they sat upon their packs in the ruby tunnel with their heads bowed in contemplation of the passing of so many fine comrades, that the kobolds came.

Kobolds are not just cave-dwelling goblins, as is commonly believed. They are a different people entirely. They are perhaps more like Merlings than goblins. Goblins, though cowardly, are more of a thinking race of creatures. Kobolds in contrast are more primitive and tribal. They are also quite different physically. Unlike goblins, who tend to grow to the size of a skinny nine-year-old boy and stay that big for life, kobolds never stop growing. They grow quite slowly after they reach maturity, but if left in a deep place—a place exactly like the Everdark—ancients had been known to reach nine-feet or more. Rankings among their kind are thus easily decided, as the matter is based entirely upon physical size. Size not only indicates strength of arm, but also age and therefore wisdom. Since they live in a very difficult world and most die young, those few who reached five or six feet in height are called
elders
. They function in war parties as captains. Those few that grow even taller, indicating many long decades of life, are called
ancients
and become chieftains.

When the kobolds came, it was not with their usual furtive slinking and dart-throwing. There was none of the fanfare of trickery, nor even the tossing of pyrotechnic pots of burning magnesium. Instead, they simply charged, surprising Brand and the Kindred gathered around him.

The only warning was the slapping of feet and a sudden screech of inhuman distress. Brand, very glad he had just donned his armor, pulled out the axe. He commanded it to light the tunnel with a steady brightness, thus aiding the eyes of the Kindred and dazzling the more light-sensitive orbs of the kobolds at the same time.

The screeching came from one of the first kobolds to run at them. In his haste, the creature had fallen prey to one of the traps. His foot had been caught and clasped in between two rolling stones. Ankle snapped, keening, the thin warrior struggled but was quickly crushed down by the running feet of a pack of his comrades.

They came in waves, some not even brandishing weapons. Brand cut them down as they ran into him. Within less than a minute a dozen lay fallen around him.

Brand faltered as a huge ancient with a stalactite club loomed out of the dark. He tugged at his axe. It was stuck in the spine of the last he had slain, but he pulled it free too late to raise it for a stroke. He lifted his shield instead, hoping to deflect some of the blow that must surely come.

A blow did come, but instead of the crushing, bone-breaking stroke he expected from the stone club, he was instead buffeted away, pushed down and climbed over. It was then, lying on the cave floor that he understood the situation.

“Let them pass!” he screamed to the Kindred. “They are fleeing. Get down into the side tunnels and let them by. They will not fight us.”

And so the Kindred managed to withdraw to the lesser tunnels and into the very black pit of the dragon itself. Hundreds of skinny naked kobold warriors slapped by, led occasionally by a man-sized elder with a skull headdress. Two more of the great ancients passed as well, their massive bodies permanently bent by long years of crouching in the too-small tunnels.

Brand and the rest kept up their guard, but let the kobolds pass by. As the stampede dwindled, everyone could only think a single thought:
What were they fleeing so desperately?

They did not have long to wait for their answer. Behind the kobolds, snapping up the last of them in great hands of mobile black stone, were the gnomes. Brand saw them and he stood up, knowing these last would not simply rush by without harm. These were the gnomes of the deep. Brand thought to himself,
they have finally found me.

These gnomes were bigger than those he had slain at their mushroom shrine in the Deepwood. To Brand, this only made sense. These were the creatures of the true Everdark, not some outcast lesser folk found in a quarry or limestone cave. As elders and ancients were to the kobolds that had just run through them, these elemental folk of living rock had grown old. Elementals grew strong and thick of limb with the passage of an infinite time in the underworld.

He recalled his boast to Myrrdin and stood tall. He held the axe and shield up and ready. Behind him, the Kindred hushed their catcalls and hoots at the fleeing kobolds. They held their collective breath at the sight of this new foe, so much more formidable than the last. Still, Brand had to give them their due. They did not flee, even though their eyes all but started from their heads. They gripped their picks and stared in grim determination. Brand knew that they would stand with him to the end, should it come to that. They would sink their picks into those huge black arms of stone even as death took them all. It was the way of the Kindred. They did not flee while a champion stood to face an enemy.

Expecting a simple charge that might bowl him over with the sheer weight of it, Brand was surprised when the gnomes stopped and regarded him. The last living kobold in sight was underfoot of the biggest of the stone monsters. The kobold was the very one that Brand had seen first, the one who’s foot had been caught in a trap of his own folk’s cunning creation. Crippled, but still clinging to life, the kobold writhed on the cavern floor.

The huge gnome looked down with obsidian eyes. There was no pity in that inhuman gaze. Almost as an afterthought, a huge hand reached downward and plucked limbs from the kobold, as a man might idly strip twigs from a branch. When its last limb was removed, the kobold fell silent and the gnome dropped it, finished with his sport.

The obsidian eyes fell upon Brand next.

“I would know those who we are about to destroy,” said the gnome, his voice so deeply bass that it seemed to shake the very stones they stood upon.

“I am the Champion of the River Folk. I bear the Golden Eye of Ambros, and I will slay all your people should that be necessary.”

The other laughed. It was a grinding sound like that of a dozen boulders rolled together into a pit.

“I am Groth. Know that I am a King here, Brand of the River Folk. What is a lord of the River Folk doing in the Everdark?”

“I came to aid the Kindred. We wish only to return to the Earthlight, having slain the dragon that dwelled here.”

Groth reacted to his words, standing taller, as fully erect as the tunnel allowed. “You? You slayed Sigrid?”

“I did,” said Brand evenly.

Groth regarded him for a moment longer. “You have also slain our people. I’ve heard of a madman, a murderer with an axe in the Deepwood. Do you deny that was your doing?”

“I do not deny it.”

“You slew Sigrid and a pack of gnomes in a single week? Never have I met a creature who could make such dire enemies so very quickly!” rumbled Groth. He made the sound of falling boulders again, laughing.

“Is there a point to this talk?”

“There is indeed. I require only one thing to allow your free passage.”

“Speak.”

“I must have your arm, the one that Ambros best likes to be wielded by.”

“My arm?” asked Brand, for the first time surprised.

“Yes. It has slain many of my youngest people, of our children. I do not ask for you to give us the axe, as I know it would break the mind of any axeman to give it. I also don’t want such as accursed thing to destroy my people as it will most surely destroy yours.”

“Your young slayed one of ours. I killed them only in defense as they attacked me.”

“Had you taken but one life, I would have understood. But you took more than a score. Many caverns are dark tonight with no ale, with no clicking of fast, youthful feet. Our people are remorseful and vengeful. I must return to them with the arm-of-flesh that caused them so much grief.”

Brand considered the offer.

Telyn came up to him and worriedly touched him. She knew him well enough to realize he might seriously allow such a thing, if he thought it was the only way to save her and everyone else. She did not want this, but she did not tell him to refuse it. Brand knew she wasn’t sure what was for the best. All she could offer was her supportive touch.

“I can’t give you my arm,” he said at last, “it is not entirely mine to give, you see. I am sworn to protect my people, as their champion. I can’t do that effectively without an arm with which to wield the Amber Jewel.”

Groth nodded, understanding this logic. “We are at an impasse. The scales must be balanced. May those who are about to cease life do so gracefully. May you become one with the Everdark, and know its everlasting peace.”

“Hold,” said Brand. He felt Telyn’s hand on his back again, and he knew that she feared whatever words he might next speak. “The Kindred that stand with me have nothing to do with this—this balancing of the scales. I ask that you and I meet in battle, and we agree to end this feud before it expands to include others, no matter what the outcome.”

“You wish to duel me to regain your honor?”

“Exactly.”

Groth was quiet for a long moment. He was as motionless as a statue while he thought about it. Finally, he raised his great stone hand in salute.

“I accept your terms.”

Brand did not know how to fight such a creature. It rumbled forward and reached out with its great stone fists, each so large it was as big as the shield he carried. One brush with those flashing fists and he knew his bones would break. So he retreated, and all the Kindred behind him scrambled to escape the oncoming monster.

When the fists struck the tunnel floor, rock splintered and leapt up as if alive. Sprays of stone shot out like bullets, and he was forced to put up his shield to keep from being blinded.

He continued retreating until a side tunnel offered itself to his left. He stepped into it, still backing away.

“Do not embarrass your people, Brand of the River Folk,” said Groth, laughing again. “This was to be a duel, not a chase.”

“Then catch me,” he said, backing further into the side tunnel.

Sensing his mockery, Groth growled, a sound like that of shoveled gravel. The side tunnel was too small to allow him to enter, so he grabbed the side of it with one huge fist and shot his other into the tunnel after Brand, reaching to his fullest extension. He resembled a man groping into a hole to grab the ears of a hiding rabbit.

Brand dropped his shield, took up his axe in both hands and struck at the wrist. He willed Ambros then to provide him with all the strength it could. He screamed to feel the power of it, his nerves exploding as they convulsed. A silent flash and a tremendous clang sounded as the gnome’s fist was severed.