Resurgent Shadows (Successive Harmony Book 1) (28 page)

Acid splattered against the wall near him, splashing him with black droplets of stinging pain. His hand slipped and suddenly he was dangling by one hand, feet hanging loose above the ground. He glanced down at the forty-foot drop, pleasantly unaffected by the dizzying height.

With a roar, he swung his legs and grasped onto a broken metal railing. Heaving, he pulled himself up, his feet finding purchase against the pockmarked walls. With a jerk, he heaved himself over the lip of the wall and onto the roof. It was flat, though a massive hole opened up in the center where weight and age had pulled it downward, leaving jagged edges of metal, brick, and wiring long devoid of electricity. It would have stymied any plans he had of surviving a battle on the roof. He wasn’t planning to stay long though. As soon as he found his footing, he spun around and, with a single glance over the edge to gauge his trajectory, threw himself over the edge of the wall and into the air.

As he fell, he had a moment of clarity. A splash of sanity and fear washed over him as the dragon below him noticed his dive and scrambled to swing its head around to snap him out of the air. What was he doing? It made no sense.

A pulse of energy shot through Valundnir as it appeared in his hand, reaching into his arms and shooting through his veins like an electric shock. All thoughts but victory vanished from his mind.

Eric kicked his legs up as he fell and turned in the air, just as the dragon shot out his gaping maw. Instead of its teeth sinking into Eric’s flesh, it met Valundnir’s head against its snout. The force of the blow and the momentum of the swing sent him tumbling over its head and tumbling down its broad smooth back. He rolled down its heavily-muscled flank on the slick-scaled hide and sprawled onto the ground.

He regained his footing quickly. The dragon scuttled forward and crawled towards Eric, using its wings almost like a second pair of legs to pull itself along. It was disoriented and angry, uttering a piercing hiss as it approached him. Black ichor dripped from its maw where the hammer had smashed away a tooth and a small patch of scales. Eric noticed with an almost detached air that the dragon’s wings were disproportionately small when compared to the size of its body.

The dragon opened its mouth to spit another stream of acid at him, but Eric dove to the side, rolled and came back up on his feet. He heaved Valundnir in an overhead throw with all his might and sent the hammer spinning end over end towards the dragon’s head. The haft clipped one of the wings and sent it careening off target, but Valundnir reappeared instantly in Eric’s hands when he recalled it, and the distraction gave him enough time scramble into a better position from which to throw.

Almost as soon as the hammer materialized in his hands Eric threw again, bellowing loudly as the dragon let out a trumpeting roar. The hammer spun through the air with enough force and speed that it hummed, crushing into the top half of the dragon’s open maw and crushing it inward, teeth, flesh, and bits of bone spraying into the air.

The dragon contorted in agony, whipping its body backwards and forwards in tortured convulsions that leveled walls and crushed asphalt and rocks to dust.

Eric rushed forward recklessly, ignoring the thrashing body. Valundnir reappeared in his hands as he ran and Eric spun it twice in his hands to gain momentum. He brought it crashing down on the dragon’s head, driving it deep into the previous break and into its brain. The dragon gave one last feeble twitch, then crashed onto the ground in a cloud of billowing dust, never to rise again.

Eric gasped for breath, his sides heaving and his lungs screaming for air. His heart was pounding and his mind had thrown up a numb barrier that clouded his perception.

Up close, the dragon was a deep dark brown and had what looked like long, thin, clawed fingers stretching from the main joints of its wings. It had a thick stocky body and powerful, muscular hind legs that bore long wide claws on each of its three-toed back feet. Its tail trailed away down the hole and was lost from sight. Acid and gore dripped unpleasantly from the pulpy mass that was left of the top half of the dragon’s head. The liquid hissed and popped as it hit the ground, eating small holes into the dirt and rock.

“Guerreiro!” The voice sounded as if it was echoing through a long tunnel. “Guerreiro!”

Eric focused on the voice with all his effort. His mind cleared and he saw the entire dverger squad aligned at attention a few yards from him, awe clearly evident on their normally stoic faces.

Pedryn stood a few feet in front of the others, his mace grasped tightly in his hand. It was he who had called out to him.

“Are you all right?” the dverger called.

Eric nodded, unable to articulate his words. He swallowed and managed to force out a question.

“Where did you all come from?”

Pedryn grinned guiltily and shrugged. “When you chased off after the missing dverger we thought perhaps you’d betrayed us and were preparing an ambush. We followed you.”

Eric stared at him blankly for a few moments while his brain slowly processed the information and then nodded as his mind cleared again and he realized just how suspicious it must have looked.

“I didn’t find the idiot anyway. This thing got in my way.” Eric said, pulling Valundnir from the mass of brain and bone with a sickening squelch.

Pedryn signaled and several of the dvergers ran forward to investigate the area. A few ran past Eric entirely, skirting the dragon’s bulk to peer into the hole.

“It was a young Brown—rather small to be out on its own. They must be gaining confidence to let their younglings hunt so far from the main body,” Varin said softly as he studied the beast from Pedryn’s side.

“Over here, Guerreiro,” one of them called in a knowing voice.

Wearily, Eric pushed aside part of the dragon’s wing and trudged over to the edge of the chasm. There, dangling from a thick barbed spike at the end of the dragon’s tail, was the missing dverger, his eyes glazed over in death. Eric glanced down at him with a surge of anger and frustration, though he wasn’t sure if it was at himself or the dead dverger.

Eric turned away, arching an eyebrow at the dverger who had spoken.

“Browns manipulate the earth around them through magic,” the dverger replied. “They hunt by making these holes and waiting beneath the surface after closing off the top with earth. When they sense someone near, the tail whips out and impales them.”

“What was he doing down here by himself?” Eric asked.

“The dragons lure them in with mind tricks and illusion. Who knows what they used to bait him. He walks now, with our honored dead. The browns almost always travel in groups though, so there may be others around here. We should return and warn the army.”

Eric nodded and scratched at his chin, a sudden thought occurring to him and making him nervous.

“Do you think they’ll make it down into the city proper?” he asked.

Pedryn shook his head. “Browns need earth to travel through. They don’t do well near places that house lots of people. They
can
but they don’t like it.”

Eric breathed an internal sigh of relief, his thoughts on Natalie and the others. He knew they were probably safe with the dverger army here to distract any large parties of golgent or trulgo—that was one of the reasons he’d agreed to go with them—but he still worried.

Eric looked down at Valundnir, expecting to find it covered in the dragon’s brains and blood, but it was surprisingly devoid of even the smallest stain. Its metal gleamed as brightly as ever. He patted the hammerhead almost fondly and slipped the weapon back into his belt loop.

He looked up and noticed that all the dvergers were once again formed up before him, their expressions full of awe. One of the dvergers had wrenched the dragon’s horns free from its shattered skull and was holding them almost reverently in his arms.

“What?” Eric demanded, shifting somewhat embarrassedly on his feet. His body still shook with vestigial adrenaline and he could feel the crash that came after a fierce adrenaline rush creeping up on him.

It was Pedryn who spoke.

“It has been many centuries since there has been a warrior so great amongst us that he could defeat a dragon single-handedly. The last great warrior perished in the battle that killed both him and the dragon he fought against. Gundlach Dragonsbane! He is a legend amongst the dvergers. And now we have another! Guerreiro Dragonsblight! Hail!”

The other dvergers repeated the call, banging their gauntleted fists against their chests in a barbaric salute.

“Hail Dragonsblight!”

Eric stood there in silence, unsure of how to respond to the salute. He had done what needed to be done. His instinct and rage had taken over and in the end it had killed the dragon. Somehow in the midst of it, he’d also won the loyalty of a dozen dvergers.

The dverger army sprawled across the bottom of the canyon in a motley formation as they marched forward, the ballista and siege weaponry bound on carts and pulled by teams of mules. Eric had been mildly surprised to see the dvergers using animals as normal as mules, but when he had inquired of Torsten about them one evening the cleric had told him that the animals had come with them during the Breaking.

When Eric and his squad had joined back up with the dverger army, there had been an uproar, both because of Eric’s being declared a Guerreiro and the fact that he had slain a dragon single-handedly. Most of the dvergers couldn’t decide which they found more important, that he was a human profaning one of their holy weapons, or that he was a powerful enough warrior to obliterate the skull of a dragon. Several fights and more than one argument had broken out about it already. At least now he had the full support and respect of his squad, all of whom proudly displayed the horns of the dragon he had slain to any who questioned him. Even Waelin, who had despised him, now loudly hailed him as “Dragonsblight” and defended him against spurious assault, both physical and verbal.

Torsten had laughed with some great inner delight when Eric had turned up with his squad bearing the horn trophy. After healing Eric’s twisted ankle with a quick prayer and a burst of white light, the cleric had promptly taken Eric to the King’s tent where the War Council had convened and shown him in without any sense of preamble. He had caused an immediate uproar amongst the clan chiefs, but apparently had gained great honor for his Clan.

Gamal, clan chief of Ragnar Clan and the dverger who Eric had punched in the first War Council, had been openly angry and suspicious, but the majority of the clan chiefs had declared the dragon’s defeat as a further sign that Eric was indeed a Guerreiro chosen by Atelho to help the dverger people. They had opened large casks of ale and mead and had poured toasts all around, hailing Eric’s victory and praising his strength.

Torsten later told him that by the end of the drinking and songs of war, even Jorund and Haefnir of the Fenrirbane and Gaeslingr Clans were speaking openly with Diarf, clan chief of the Deepgarth, about his fighting alongside them, something that had never happened before between the clans. It was all political maneuvering, which Eric cared little about, but his actions in killing the dragon had at least assured him of being a player in the political arena instead of a pawn.

Several larger scouting parties were sent out the next morning to ensure that the lone dragon Eric had killed was indeed alone. Eric had been reluctant to move on before ensuring that no other dragons were going to slip behind the advancing army and attack the people he’d left behind. He had made that mistake once. He was not going to let it happen again.

Olan had allowed the army to stay until midday when the patrols reported back that there were no other dragon pits found in the area. After the report, Eric and his squad were brought to the fore of the army as it marched, a position of honor. Clan chiefs and other warriors moved to the fore in the disorganized march to congratulate him, and Eric responded as little as possible. He found it all very cloying and often found himself absently twirling Valundnir in his hands, longing for something to fight, for some action outside the tedium of the marching and chatter.

Throughout it all, Torsten and Pedryn stayed close by his side, steering conversations and passing along pieces of information that Eric was able to store away for later use.

Gamal was the only one of the clan chiefs who stayed conspicuously absent from the head of the convoy as they marched. Eric didn’t care if he ever saw the dverger again, but Torsten had mentioned his concern at the clan chief’s absence more than once. The cleric worried that Gamal was plotting something, a political gambit to either discredit or undermine Eric’s newfound popularity and authority.

“How far would you say we are from the valley?” Torsten asked, bringing Eric out of his thoughts.

They had passed through the outskirts of Moab a few hours before, scaring up a band of marauders that had been quickly dispatched by one of the scouting parties before Eric could join in the action. The dead city had been picked clean and was now little more than a ghost town. Eric felt a twinge of sadness as they had passed through the middle of the ruins, the only things that remained to provide a testament to the thousands of people who had once lived, worked, and thrived within them. He hoped that some of them had managed to escape the initial attacks, but he doubted that any of them actually had. Hubris was the fatal flaw of humanity as a whole, and millions had died proving it. The weak perished while the strong and the prepared survived. Eric took a moment to study the scenery around them and did a quick mental calculation based off his memories of the area.

“Another day or two I would imagine is all, Torsten,” Eric answered.

Eric liked the jovial cleric, though he was wary of him as well. The dverger was so unlike the rest of his race in some ways that Eric wasn’t sure what to think. It was true that Torsten could throw down a mug of mead as readily as any other dvergers, but the cleric was also thoughtful and not prone to making rash decisions. Being a cleric, he had powers that the other dvergers did not, as demonstrated with his healing of Eric’s twisted ankle. There was also a deep underlying cunning to him that was evident in the way he manipulated the dvergers around him. Eric himself was too much an observer of others to not notice Torsten’s carefully timed insertions into the dverger politics. For whatever Olan said about being King, Torsten truly commanded the dverger nation.

“The scouting parties will confirm that,” Pedryn grunted from a few feet behind.

Pedryn was as dverger-like as they came: stolid, stubborn, and not given to explaining himself. He often used his fists to sort out arguments and differences of opinion amongst the other dvergers in Eric’s squad. When anyone other than Torsten was around, he was a silent observer, though the cleric managed to bring out the conversationalist within him. The rest of Eric’s squad, arrayed in loose formation behind Pedryn, found this only slightly better than the gruff dverger’s usual approach, since Pedryn’s tongue could be every bit as blunt and forceful as were his fists.

He was also a Stonewalker. Eric wasn’t sure what that meant, but Torsten had mentioned it being the reason that the dverger never seemed to wear shoes of any kind.

“Of course,” Torsten replied to Pedryn with a nod.

It was the most either of them had said since they had passed through Moab.

Runners were constantly passing by on their way to converse with Olan where he marched a little further up the column, bringing him messages from the clan chiefs and from the scouting parties. Eric shook his head. They weren’t really scouting parties, more like advance guards. Dvergers were not built for silent observation.

“Why aren’t you up there with Olan?” Eric asked Torsten, more to have something to say than out of any real interest in the answer. He was bored with the slow, silent marching, and welcomed even the slightest diversion.

“I have no desire to engage in politics,” Torsten said with a wry smile. Eric snorted and Torsten laughed.

“If that’s true then I’m a bearded gnome,” Eric said.

“Things are far more interesting here with you, Guerreiro,” Torsten said with a wink. “Here comes Gamal now. I was wondering when he’d make his move. His honor would allow nothing less and he has already waited long enough.”

Eric glanced over his shoulder and saw a group of dvergers pushing their way through the ranks of warriors, Gamal at their head, his armor glistening in the subdued sunlight. Most of the warriors gave way before him, though Eric’s squad formed into a wall of shields to bar their way. The rest of the column continued onward, though there were a few that remained to see what would happen. Pedryn moved back to stand in the middle of the wall of shields and glared at Gamal’s approach over the backs of the dverger footmen.

The clan chief stomped up to the wall of shields and pressed his face up as close to it as he could, his expression one of obvious anger and contempt.

“Order these men to lower their shields and let me pass,” Gamal yelled as the dvergers who’d accompanied him fingered their weapons and growled at the dvergers blocking their way. “I am clan chief of the Ragnar Clan!”

Pedryn stared uncaringly back at him, his eyes cold and his mace in his hands. He was a picture of indifference.

“Let him through, Pedryn,” Torsten said. “There is no honor in defying a clan chief.”

Pedryn glanced at Eric, who shrugged, before ordering the dvergers to stand down and let Gamal pass. They complied reluctantly. The clan chief shoved his way through the line as soon as they started lowering their shields and marched up within a few feet of Eric. Slowly, almost ceremoniously, he removed the helm from his head and tossed it at Eric’s feet. The dvergers in Eric’s squad roared in protest as the helmet bounced once in the dirt and rolled on top of Eric’s booted feet.

“I challenge this human to the rigors of Holmganga. I deny his right to Valundnir and his names as both Guerreiro and Dragonsblight!” Gamal declared in a voice that rang into the air and silenced the angry yells from Varin and the other dvergers.

Torsten stepped up behind Eric and whispered in his ear, “If you don’t accept the challenge you will lose Valundnir forthwith and all your titles automatically. I would advise you to accept the challenge.”

Eric pushed the cleric away and picked up the helmet from off the ground. He had already planned to accept it. Varin had told him what he would face and he was prepared to respond. He felt a thrill of excitement as he casually tossed the helmet back into the dirt at Gamal’s feet.

A part of him wondered at the excitement, though it was a small part and easily ignored. Holmganga would be a welcome relief to the boredom of the last few days.

“I accept.”

“What’s all this then?” Olan said in the silence that followed.

Eric turned to look over his shoulder at the approaching dverger king. Either someone had gone to get him or he had noticed himself, but either way he did not look happy. Several heavily armored guards accompanied him, opening a path for the king with the butts of their ceremonial spears.

It was Gamal who answered. “I have challenged the human to Holmganga and denied his right to Valundnir and the title and honor that go with it.”

“And the title of Dragonsblight, don’t forget that.” Torsten added dryly.

Gamal inclined his head slightly toward the cleric.

“We don’t have time for this now, Gamal!” Olan shouted. “And you can’t invoke the right of Holmganga during times of war.”

“Technically, he can.” Torsten interjected quietly, as a number of the dvergers that had come with Gamal roared in protest, attracting the attention of the passing dvergers from the main body of the army. “We have never formally declared Enclave Laws. Gamal is well within his right. The Guerreiro has already accepted the challenge.”

Olan deflated somewhat at that, but he was not done. “Fine then, but as King I declare that it must be decided here and now! They must both pick their Arbiter’s and decide this within the hour. I’ll not have this contest delay our march.”

Eric internally scoffed at the King’s pretense. It was obvious that he had little real authority and that Torsten would get his way no matter what.

“Torsten,” Varin interjected, “this is idiocy. The Guerreiro has already been chosen by Valundnir and accepted by Atelho or else the weapon would not have heeded his calls and helped him defeat the dragon. You must put a stop to this!”

The dvergers in Eric’s squad shouted their agreement as the warriors that came with Gamal fingered their weaponry angrily.

Torsten sardonically shook his head and smiled. “Atelho is bound by the rules of honor He created. He cannot simply ignore them without succumbing to Chaos. Gamal is well within his rights since Holmganga is ignorant of rank or station.”

“Ridiculous!” Varin spluttered.

“Enough!” Olan roared, grabbing a nearby dverger’s shield and axe and banging them together to drown out the ensuing protests and noise. “It is done! The next dverger who speaks will taste the blade o’ my axe! Choose your Arbiter’s and perform the Holmganga!”

Eric arched an eyebrow at Torsten, who grinned back at him.

“The Arbiters represent the participants in the debate over rules and winnings,” the cleric explained. “Long ago the participants decided for themselves, but this led to unfair contests and fighting before the rules had even been agreed upon.”

Gamal had already returned to the group of warriors who had accompanied him and was arguing with them heatedly.

“So I can have anyone as my Arbiter?” Eric asked, absently rubbing a thumb over the metal etchings on Valundnir’s head.

“Indeed.”

“Well, then I choose Pedryn.”

Pedryn’s eyes widened slightly as Eric spoke his name, the only evidence of his surprise. He nodded solemnly and turned in Gamal’s direction.

“I will arbitrate on behalf of the Guerreiro!” he shouted formally.

Gamal looked over at him and scowled. The clan chief grabbed one of the dvergers from his clan and shoved him forward. The dverger looked a little disgruntled, but he inclined his head towards Pedryn and shouted in return.