Rise of the Blood Masters (Book 5) (11 page)

As if on cue, Bolrakei entered a side corridor, surrounded by her advisors. She was a sight to behold. She had refused to wear the official colors of mourning. Instead of gray or white, her vast bulk was squeezed into a shiny green dress, topped with a metallic cape. The whole outfit was decorated with peacock feathers. Her neck and wrists glittered with jewels. To complete the ensemble, she had chosen an enormous plumed headdress, which trailed silver ribbons that reached down to her waist.

It was the gaudiest attire that Skemtun had ever seen, especially at a funeral. But no one said anything out loud. Skemtun just shook his head. It wouldn’t be right to curse at a funeral.

A single trumpet sounded, and the band went silent.

The attendants walked down the stairs, carrying the funeral litter into the waiting crowd below. Everyone could see the body clearly; the king’s hands were folded, and his expression was peaceful. The spellcasters had done an excellent job covering the king’s scars and mottled skin. He looked like a younger version of himself, and it was as if he were merely sleeping.

Everyone waved their clan flags and stood aside while the two clan leaders positioned themselves at the front. Bolrakei and Skemtun stood side-by-side, not arguing for once. Theirs were places of honor. Skemtun glanced into the crowd. Kathir kept a respectful distance, but he was still in sight. Four other dwarves stepped forward to represent the remaining clans, but they stayed in the back, behind the king.

Skemtun raised his clan flag and stepped forward. The main gates were opened, and the king’s body was carried outside where it was immediately lowered to the ground for a prayer. He shot a disgusted look at Bolrakei, who was waving enthusiastically, as if she were in a carnival procession.

He realized then how glad he was to have Kathir with him. The man’s constant presence had taken some getting used to, but Skemtun was thankful for the extra protection.
Especially with this overgrown peacock strutting around!

The chief spellcaster, a withered old dwarf in a black robe, approached the body, chanting loudly in an ancient language. His mouth was drawn in a somber frown.  Skemtun recognized a few words here and there, but otherwise he couldn’t understand what was being said.
It’s nothin’ but old wizard chatter anyway.

The crowd hushed as the wizard drew a small statuette from his robe. It started to glow, and the wizard placed it between Hergung’s clasped hands. The old spellcaster knelt over the body and pressed two fingers to the king’s forehead.

A smear of ash remained where the spellcaster had touched the king’s face. The old mage said a final prayer and tossed a handful of dirt onto the litter. It disappeared among the flowers and other offerings.

Carrying a bronze censer filled with incense, the mage went three times around the litter. Then, he stepped back and raised his hands to the heavens, his long robes swaying back and forth. “Return to the earth, dear king! Descend to your final sleep with my benediction upon your name! Farewell! Farewell!” he chanted.

“Farewell! Farewell!” The crowd repeated.

“May ye rest in peace for all eternity,” said the mage.

Once again, the crowd repeated, “For all eternity! For all eternity!”

The incense smelled strongly of medicinal herbs, and the fragrant smoke masked any odor from the body. The sun was high in the sky by the time the litter was placed on its carriage and hitched to the oxen. The carriage attendants settled into their positions, holding willow switches to spur the oxen.

The official procession began in the afternoon, in the orchards outside the gates. Slowly, the crowd lurched forward in its ritual march. Skemtun led the column, with Bolrakei at his side. Again he wished someone else were there standing next to him—anyone but her. He glanced back. Hundreds of dwarves followed behind, praying, singing, and crying as they went.

Skemtun breathed deeply. The air from the surrounding forest was warm and carried a soft perfume from blooming flowers. There weren’t any clouds in the sky, so it was hot, and Skemtun was wearing thick clothing. Compared to the relative cool of the dwarf caverns, it felt unpleasantly warm outside.

Skemtun pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat off his brow. He hoped the procession would move faster. The prayers had taken a long time. If they stayed out in this heat much longer, they might need to hold a few more funerals. He wasn’t the only one who was uncomfortable, either.

Sweat trickled from the brows of many of the mourners. Fanning her chubby face with her hand, Bolrakei looked ready to collapse.

There were thousands of willow buds floating in the air. It seemed like an odd time of year for it, so Skemtun couldn’t tell if the falling blossoms were natural or something that the spellcasters had added to the ceremony. The tiny white buds made many of the dwarves sneeze as they fell like snow upon the crowd.

The mourners made their way up the rocky track that circled the mountain. Skemtun huffed, sweating more profusely as they began their steady climb up the mountainside. The procession would climb upward toward the caldera; the trek would take several hours and would end at sunset.

A double row of oil torches lined the edges of the path. The torches would be lit after sundown, when the procession made its way back down the mountain.

Skemtun walked on. The trail began to get rougher, and he noticed that people were starting to stumble. Everyone was hot and tired. As they ascended higher up the mountain, the path was partially broken away, and people had to squish together to pass. Debris from the mountain-side collected at the shoulder, narrowing the path. The march slowed.

Bolrakei started to curse under her breath.

There were holes and missing pavestones everywhere. The road was overgrown with weeds in some places. In the worst spots, a wood panel had to be placed underneath the carriage wheels so the wagon could continue moving forward. The roads had been neglected and had become more and more dangerous with time, but the problem had been relatively easy to ignore ... until now.

It was another reminder of the work that went undone after the Vardmiters left. They were the road builders, and maintenance was neglected now that they were gone. The procession moved slower and slower until finally the carriage came to a dead stop, unable to move because of a boulder that had materialized in the middle of the path.

The attendants hurried up the trail, looking for a way around the obstacle.

But that wasn’t enough for Bolrakei, who was by now completely incensed. She shouted and cursed. “Why wasn’t this road cleared before the procession began?”

Skemtun tried to ignore her outburst. This was a funeral, after all. It wasn’t an appropriate place for a squabble. But soon other dwarves began arguing as well. Somehow it exploded into a shouting match of escalating curses. The band stopped playing. Children were screaming, irritated by the heat and the noise.

Skemtun looked back and locked eyes with Kathir, who was standing several steps behind him in the crowd. They were both thinking the same thing. The ceremony was a disaster. A funeral shouldn’t be like this.
If this goes on much longer, there’s going to be a riot.

Bolrakei kept screaming, “Why wasn’t this taken care of yesterday? How are we supposed to move forward? This is outrageous!” Then she pointed an accusing finger at Skemtun. “
You
should have fixed this!”

“It’s not
my
responsibility to clean up the roads!” Skemtun said angrily.

“Then whose responsibility is it?” she screeched back. “No one ever told
me
that the roads needed clearing.”

“That’s a good question,” Skemtun said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Maybe you should clean them up? Yer clan is the
laziest
in the entire kingdom!”

Bolrakei gasped with fury.
“What
did you say to me? How dare you insult me in this manner!” She flung her head back, and in the process lost her fancy hat. It tumbled off her head and became a tangled mess of tassels and plucked feathers on the ground. Skemtun tried to calm the crowd while Bolrakei raged on about her ruined headdress.

Just then, a lightning flash burst in the sky. Skemtun blinked, looked up, and placed his hand over his eyes. A deafening roar shook the earth beneath them. People dropped to the ground and covered their heads.

When Skemtun glanced up, he saw what had made the noise. An enormous white dragon circled overhead, the largest he had ever seen. The crowd gasped.

Another dragon joined the first, a smaller female with scars on both wings. Both of the dragons had riders. It was Sela, the leader of the dragon riders, along with her carnelian dragon, Brinsop. Elias rode his colossal white dragon, Nydeired.

The white dragon descended slowly. His wings were so large that it looked like he was flying in slow motion. There was no space for Nydeired to land on the path, so he flew a short distance up the mountain and landed there. When the white dragon’s feet touched down, the ground trembled.

Brinsop flew down and landed closer to the crowd. Sela jumped off her dragon’s back and approached the dwarves.

Bolrakei smoothed her expression and adopted a frozen grin. “Why, hello, Sela! Thank you for attending the funeral. We appreciate your presence during this difficult time.”

Sela placed her hands on both hips and frowned. “Save your hollow platitudes, Bolrakei. The clans may have restored you to your former position, but I haven’t forgotten your treachery against the dragon riders. Your betrayal of one of our own has not been forgiven.”

The fake smile dropped from Bolrakei’s face. “What are you doing here then? I certainly don’t remember inviting you.”

Sela looked like she wanted to strike her. Skemtun would have applauded her for it. Instead, Sela said, “The dragon riders are here because it is our job to protect the people of Durn. I’ve come to deliver this.”

She reached into her waistband and produced a scroll, which she handed to the spellcaster standing near the front of the carriage. “I would’ve gotten this message to you sooner, but the only dwarf telepath is Mugla, and she left Mount Velik to serve the Vardmiters. There was no way to deliver this message to you any faster.”

The old dwarf wizard reached into a breast pocket. He took out an ancient pair of spectacles and placed them carefully on his nose. Then he slowly unrolled the parchment. Skemtun glanced at it, but the parchment was blank. 

Mumbling to himself, the old wizard said, “There’s a minor glamour here ...
Pārēre,”
he said, waving his fingers over the scroll. The glamour dropped, and hidden runes appeared. The old man squinted, struggling to read the tiny writing.

Bolrakei’s brow furrowed. She tapped her foot impatiently. Finally she said, “Speak up! What’s taking you so long? What does the message say?”

The old mage shook violently. His eyes were wide, his hands trembling. Lifting his weathered face, he whispered, “I can’t believe it . This can’t be happening now. Not now!”

“What? What is it? Don’t just stand there! Tell us!” Bolrakei screamed. When the old man failed to respond, she reached out and slapped his hand, knocking the scroll into the dirt. “Say something, you doddering old fool!”

The wizard’s voice came out as a choked whisper. “The orcs are on the march. They are coming here! To Mount Velik! They mean to overrun our city.”

A chorus of frightened cries rose from the crowd.

Sela raised her hands and spoke. “Calm yourselves, please. It’s true. The greenskins intercepted one of your funeral announcements, and King Nar gathered his armies the same day. The orcs are coming here, and they will arrive at your doorstep before the next full moon. I’m sorry, but the funeral ceremony must end now. In a few weeks, the greenskins will be at your doors, and Mount Velik will be under siege.”

“It’s too soon!” Bolrakei shrieked, “We just started rebuilding after those blasted Vardmiters left! Our troops aren’t ready for combat. We’re not prepared for it!”

Skemtun looked at the Sela, and then at the frightened crowd behind him. It was a sea of terrified faces.

It was true, then.
The orcs were coming. Skemtun didn’t want to believe it, but he couldn’t deny it. “We’ll have to get ready,” he said softly, “because we don’t know when they’ll strike. We don’t have any choice.” He raised his voice and spoke to the crowd. “Everybody turn around. We have to go back inside, and get ready. The clans must prepare for battle.”

Sela nodded. “War is coming, whether you like it or not.”

Part Two:

The Orc Menace

Tallin’s Fight

              Tallin woke up in a dark place. He turned over and groaned. His wrists and ankles were tied with rope, and his head felt like it was on fire. Tallin strained against the ropes and cursed. The knots only grew tighter.

              The elves had enchanted the bonds. He should have known it wouldn’t be so easy. He struggled to sit up, gasping as pain shot through his limbs. Every muscle in his body ached and it was all he could do to remain upright.

He blinked into the darkness. As his eyes adjusted, his surroundings slowly came into focus. He was inside a small room with a wooden floor. There was no furniture, just a few light crystals embedded into the walls.

The crystals gave off a dim red light that distorted the color of everything. He checked for a door, but there was none, just a narrow opening on the far side of the room.

He reached up and touched his face, and found clotted blood near his ear.
How long have I been here?
He glanced around, tried to find other options, but the room was empty. There was nothing he could use to break his bonds. There was no way he could escape.

“Hello?” he called into the darkness. “Is anyone there?”

He heard a grunt and the sound of light footsteps. Carnesîr and Fëanor walked into the room.