No one knew where he went. There were rumors, of course.
There were always rumors.
Some said he went north into the Borderlands and settled his family there. Some said he changed his name so that no one would know who he was.
One man claimed, years later, to have seen him. A trader of jewelry, he traveled a broad stretch of the Four Lands in search of new markets. It was in a small village above the Rainbow Lake, he reported, that he had come upon Urprox Screl.
Only he wasn’t using the name Screl anymore.
He was using the name Creel.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Wind and rain tore at the ramparts and walls of Stedden Keep, mirroring the fury of the battle being fought at the castle’s broad gates. Twice the Northland army had come against the walls and twice the Dwarves had driven it back. Now it was nearing midnight, the skies black, the air thick with rain, the light so poor that it was impossible to see more than a few feet save when lightning scorched the whole of the Ravenshorn with its brilliant, momentary fire.
They were going to lose this one, too, Risca thought, striding down the stairway from the main wall to the central court in search of Raybur. Not that any of them had thought they wouldn’t. That they had held this long was a minor miracle. That they were still alive after weeks of fighting and retreating was a bigger miracle still. But they were running out of time and chances. They had stalled for just about as long as they were able.
Where were the Elves? Why hadn’t they come?
For weeks after their escape from the Wolfsktaag, the Dwarves had fought a holding action against the advancing Northlanders The army of the Warlock Lord had smashed them at every turn.
but still they had gone on fighting. They had been lucky in the Wolfsktaag; they had escaped with almost no loss of life. Their luck hadn’t lasted. They had fought a dozen engagements since, and in several their pursuers had gotten the upper hand, through either perseverance or luck. The Dwarves they had trapped, they had slaughtered on the spot. Though the Eastlanders had fought back savagely and inflicted heavy losses on their attackers, the losses seemed inconsequential. Outnumbered and overmatched, the Dwarves simply had no chance against an army of such strength and size. They were brave and they were determined, but they had been forced back steadily at every turn.
Now they were deep in the Ravenshorn and in danger of being dislodged from that protectorate as well. The Wolfsktaag and the Central Anar were lost. Culhaven had fallen early. The Silver River from the Rainbow Lake to the Cillidellan was in enemy hands. There was no way of knowing how much of the north was gone. All of it, in all probability. If the Ravenshorn was taken as well, the Dwarves would be forced to fall all the way back to the High Bens and the fortress at Dun Fee Aran. If that fell, too, they would have lost their last retreat. They would have no choice but to flee into the lands east, country into which they had barely ventured.
And that was what was going to happen, Risca supposed. Certainly they were not going to be able to hold here. Stedden Keep would fall by morning. The outlying moats and pit traps had already been crossed, and the Northlanders were building scaling ladders to throw up against the walls. The wind and the rain seemed to make no difference to their efforts. They were in the grip of something stronger than the elements—a fear, a madness, a horror of the creature commanding them. Magic drove them on, dark and terrible, and perhaps for them, in their present state, even death was preferable to facing the consequences of failure.
Risca reached the bottom of the stairs and crossed out of the tower into the courtyard. The sounds of battle washed over him, a cacophony that even the storm’s fury could not surmount. A battering ram hammered at the gates, slamming into the portals with steady, mindless insistence. The gates shuddered, but held. Atop the battlements, the Dwarves sent arrows and spears flying into attackers massed so thick it was virtually impossible to miss. Oil fires climbed one wall, the remains of an earlier attack the Dwarves had repulsed. Defenders raced everywhere, trying to fill gaps in the line for which there simply weren’t enough men.
Raybur appeared suddenly out of the chaos and seized his arm.
“We’ll only be able to hold until they complete the ladders!” he shouted into the teeth of the wind, bringing his face close to the younger man’s. “We can’t do more, Risca!”
Risca nodded. He felt worn and discouraged. He was tired of running, weary of being chased, and angry that it was about to happen all over again.
“The tunnels are readied,” he replied, not bothering to raise his voice. He had just returned from making sure their escape route was safely in place. Geften had scouted the tunnels himself, making sure they were clear. The Dwarves would flee through the mountain corridors carved out of the rock at the rear of their fortress and emerge on the east side of the peaks. From there, they would descend into the densely forested valley beyond and melt away once more.
Raybur pulled him from the court into the lee of the tower entry from which he had emerged. There he braced him, his eyes hard.
“What’s happened to the Elves?” the Dwarf King asked with tightly controlled fury.
Risca shook his head. “They would come if Tay Trefenwyd could find a way to bring them. Something’s happened. Something we don’t know anything about.”
Raybur shook his bearded face in obvious distaste. “Makes things sort of one-sided in this war, doesn’t it? Us and no one else against an army the size of that one out there?” Shouts broke from the walls, and defenders raced to fill a new breach. “How much longer are we supposed to hold on? We’re losing more men with every new battle, and we don’t have that many to lose!”
His anger was understandable. One of those lost already was his eldest son. Wyrik had fallen four days earlier, killed by a stray arrow. They had been in retreat across the Anar and into the Ravenshorn, intent on reaching the fortress at Stedden Keep. The arrow had gone through his throat and into his brain. He had died instantly, virtually before anyone had even noticed he was struck Raybur had been next to him when it had happened, and had caught him in his arms as he fell.
The two men stood looking at each other in the damp shadow of the entry, both of them thinking of the boy’s death, reading it in each other’s eyes.
Raybur looked away, disgusted. “If we just had some word, some assurance that help is coming...” He shook his head once more.
“Bremen would never desert us,” Risca declared quietly, firmly. “Whatever else happens, he will come.”
Raybur’s eyes narrowed. “If he’s still alive.”
The words hung there, blade-sharp in the silence, accusatory, bleak and despairing.
Then a terrible wrenching sound shattered their momentary consideration of the prospect of the old man’s death, a horrifying groan of metal fastenings coming apart and wooden timbers giving way. Both men knew at once what it was, but Raybur said it first.
“The gates!”
They sprinted from the doorway into the rain-soaked night. A flash of lightning split the dark ceiling of the clouds. Ahead, the main gates had buckled under the onslaught of the battering ram.
Already hinges were snapped and the crossbar splintered. The Dwarves were trying to shore up the sagging barrier with additional timbers, but it was only a matter of time now before everything collapsed. The pounding of the ram had intensified, and the cries of the attackers had risen in response. On the walls, the Dwarves drew back uncertainly from their defensive positions.
Fleer came running up to his father, his long hair flying. “We have to get everyone out!” he shouted, his face pale and stricken.
“Do so!” snapped Raybur in reply, his voice cold and harsh “Withdraw from the walls, through the fortress corridors, and into the tunnels! I have had enough of this!”