“Eight hundred.” Gneiss snorted. “There won’t be air enough in Thorbardin for a dwarf to breathe.”
Hornfel watched the Daewar leave and turned back to the valley. An eagle sailed the wind far out over the meadows, the sun gold on its back. He would not try to second-guess Gneiss. It couldn’t be done. He thought of his ‘fey mage Jordy’ and wondered where the mage was now, and if he, Kyan Red-axe, and Isarn’s apprentice, Stanach, were still alive.
It had been four days since Piper had transported himself and his two companions to Long Ridge. Would it take four days to find the Kingsword? Aye, and longer if the ranger who had been said to be carrying it had left the town before they arrived.
They might all three be dead. Or not. They might have found the sword. Or not. The only thing he knew for certain was that Realgar didn’t have it. The fact that he, Hornfel, still lived was the proof of that. Though Hornfel had never seen Stormblade, he longed for the sword as though it had been his, cherished for many long years before it was stolen. He wanted to touch the steel, feel the bridge to rulers hundreds of years dead. Stormblade was his heritage, a Hylar sword made for the Hylar thane who would rule in Thorbardin as his eldfathers before him had ruled.
The wind from the mountains skirled high, as though it were an echo of one of Piper’s war songs, or one of his tavern songs. Hornfel turned away from the valley.
“Young Jordy,” he said, “if you’re living still, I pray you’re bringing the sword back.”
If you are not, he thought as he returned a guard’s nod and entered the gatehouse, then we’d all better watch our backs. If Realgar finds the Kingsword, it will only be a matter of time before war, revolution, or tyranny falls on Thorbardin.
The dwarf Brek put the tall pile of rock and stone between his back and the crimson light of the hated sun. Between this huge, nature-crafted cairn and the smaller, man-built one, lay the darkest pool of shadow. Here Agus, called the Gray Herald, communed with their thane. Brek closed his eyes against the growing light and hoped that Realgar would soon call them home.
He and his patrol had seen five dawns in the Outlands, cursing the day and longing for the deep warrens beneath Thorbardin. Mica and Chert, sleeping now as best they could in the shadows, had stood well against the rigors of the sun’s bitter light. However, Wulfen, who was known as “the Merciless,” was not quite right in his head. Brek was surprised that Hornfel’s pet mage had survived under Wulfen’s guard.
Brek bared his teeth in a feral grin. The ambush had worked well. They’d taken Piper as the moons set. He was returning from the nearby forest, a rabbit in hand for his breakfast. Even a mage must give way to a set crossbow at his back and swords gleaming before his eyes. Brek hoped that Realgar wouldn’t want the mage in a healthy condition. Wulfen, it seemed, had wreaked a full measure of vengeance upon the mage for the wound he took in the battle four days ago. Brek listened to the dawn wind as it rustled through grasses dead of frost. That wind sounded like the dry whispering voice of the Gray Herald. Brek shuddered.
It was not the doings of magic that made him shudder. Though he was no mage, Brek had been in the derro thane’s service long enough to become, if not comfortable, at least familiar with the workings of magic. No, it was the clan-reft Gray Herald himself who stirred the hair on the back of his neck.
Shadow separated from shadow between the giant cairn and the Herald came to the edge of the comforting darkness. He threw back the hood of his dark cloak. A cold, baleful light flickered in the mageling’s black eye; darkness filled the socket where his left eye had been. His face, normally mobile with strange, dark thoughts, was as still as a carved mask. Watching the Gray Herald the way one would watch a starving wolf, Brek put his back closer to the pile of stone.
“The thane will speak with you,” the Herald whispered. Agus lifted his head. Like the reflection of distant storms, light flared high and then died in his eye. When he spoke again, it was not with his own rough, growling voice. As though Realgar stood beside him, Brek heard the thane’s vibrant, steady voice.
You have the mage.
The dwarf moistened his lips nervously, drew a breath to speak and found he had to draw yet another breath before he could answer. The Gray Herald, the voice of Realgar, waited.
“Aye, Thane, we have him living still.”
The sword?
Brek swallowed dryly. “He doesn’t have it, Thane. We took him before dawn. Wulfen has been questioning him. The mage says nothing.” Brek glanced at the small cairn, recently built. A fire ring and the little bones of past meals lay near the cairn. “But, he was waiting here, and seems to have been since we first did battle with him and killed Kyan Red-axe.”
The Gray Herald sighed as though he’d heard something his companion had not. But, it was Realgar, many miles distant, who spoke, and it was the fire of the thane’s anger Brek saw now flaring in the Herald’s one eye. The apprentice? The third one?
“There is no sign of him.” Brek spoke quickly now. “The mage was waiting for someone. I think he was waiting for this apprentice, this Stanach Hammerfell. He’ll have the sword, Thane. At least, he will have word of it.”
Aye? Well, maybe he will. Wait for him. If he has the sword, kill him and take it. He’s only one.
The thane’s voice turned bitter, scornful.
It’s likely you can manage that. If he doesn’t have the sword, the Herald will bring him here to me. It may be that he will be better at providing the answers this god’s-cursed ranger refuses to give.
“And if he has no word?”
Brek shuddered again, for now the thane spoke to Agus alone and it seemed that the Gray Herald spoke to himself, as the mad are said to do. Yes, Herald, yes. The task of making an end to him will be yours, as it always is. Amuse yourself with Hornfel’s pet mage. Arrange it so that he’s no trouble to us.
When he laughed, the Gray Herald’s hands twitched as though they wound the ends of a garrote.
Piper saw fire behind his eyes, red and glowing as the mark of the Kingsword was said to be, crimson as the blood for which dead Kyan’s axe had been named. He saw the light of the rising sun through eyes tightly closed against the overwhelming agony of broken hands. The Theiwar spoke together in the shadows between Kyan’s barrow and the giant’s cairn. Piper heard the words as they echoed between the two piles of stone and knew that they would soon come to kill him. Then, he thought, they’ll sit here comfortably between the cairns and wait for Stanach and the sword. He’ll be here today with the sword or without.
The words of a healing spell flickered in his mind like promises just out of reach. He had no means to enact the spelclass="underline" Wulfen had broken his hands before he did anything else to him. Without the patterned dance of gestures, the spell was useless. Wulfen was not stupid. He’d swiftly removed any chance Piper might have had for arcane defense. The only thing of magic left to him was the old wooden flute still hanging at his belt.
They saw no harm in a flute long known to amuse children. They were wrong, and they were right. The flute’s magic was a powerful force and could call up several spells. Some required precise fingerplay, some none at all. These were the most difficult spells, for they depended wholly on the timing of Piper’s breathing. Yet, it all was useless to a mage whose fingers were ruined, who could barely draw a breath.
“Hornfel’s pet mage,” these Theiwar called him. It was not a naming Jordy resented, though he, as most of the dwarves in Thorbardin, thought of himself as Piper. He was the thane’s man, bone and blood, and to be called Hornfel’s was no disgrace at all.