The Madness of Gods and Kings (32 page)

Still, there was no denying that the gods were the largest source of turmoil in Malweir. Strict adherence to the old ways left the world plunged in a never ending cycle of violence. Perhaps it was better having a singular deity. It would certainly alleviate tension between sects and races though Artiss ultimately decided new reasons for war would be invented and the cycle would continue.

The church itself was wholly impressive. He marveled at the smooth façade and stained glass windows that, when caught just right, reflected sunlight in a myriad of colors. The Giants had taken a relatively inhospitable part of Malweir and turned it into a home. Few others could lay claim to such. Artiss exhaled, mind wandering down forgotten paths. His time was steadily drawing to its conclusion and that frightened him.

Thousands of years on Malweir, mostly squandered by the illusion of immortality, were all behind him now. Life took on new meaning. He’d meant to become something more than the ordinary man born in a backwater village in southern Antheneon. Turning to the Dae’shan had been intensely personal but never in question. For a while he mattered. His life dedicated to the preservation of all others no matter how small or insignificant. That was before the taint crept into the souls of the rest. Artiss broke ties with Amar Kit’han and fled to the sanctity of Trennaron, forever to remain until the final battle between the gods.

No fool, he knew his death rode the morning winds, howling down from the mountaintops to whisk his withered corpse away to his final rest. A well-deserved rest, to be sure. Artiss knew he was ready to die. It was the act of doing so that frightened him. The thunder of heavy footsteps broke his train of thought, dropping him back in the middle of Venheim. He turned in time to see Joden reenter. The sour look on the Giant’s face told him enough.

“They wish to speak directly to you.”

Artiss followed him to the council hall.

Once inside, he was surrounded by seven Giants, not counting the forge master. They towered over his six-foot frame, diminishing his power by sheer size. Artiss folded his hands in front of him and took in the near dismal sights of the hall. Cross beams ran across the vaulted ceiling like so many spider webs on the morning dew. Torches blazed from all four corners, offering just enough light for business to be conducted. The Giants took seats behind the singularly largest stone table Artiss had ever witnessed. Old and worn, the granite top was smoothed with time.

The Giants were equally impressive. Artiss stared back, noticing their mild and poorly disguised discomfort. He held the upper hand. Everyone in the hall knew so. It was no difficult task to incinerate them all, yet Artiss appeared humbled, reserved before them. It was his one chance at getting them to agree to his plans. He settled his gaze on the young Blekling and waited to be addressed.

The wait was mercifully short.

“Your kind is a stain on Malweir. The painful reminder of what can happen when one places himself above the will of the gods. You are not welcome in Venheim,
Dae’shan
,” Blekling ground out. “The only reason you stand before us is our respect for the venerable Joden. His voice still carries favor among many on this council. Speak quickly and plainly. Why have you come to the forge of Giants?”

Artiss rose to eye level with the black-haired Giant. Gasps rippled through those assembled. More than one hand reached for a weapon that wasn’t there. Artiss ignored them, his eyes fixed on the current Giant leader. “The time of the final convergence is upon us. The time when the dark gods will attempt to reenter our world for the last time. Some months ago you dispatched Groge with a handful of Men to claim the Blud Hamr. I do not believe he can succeed without the rest of you at his side.”

A scoff.

“Nonsense! He is a Giant of Venheim, even if a mere apprentice. What other being on Malweir is capable of succeeding if not he?”

Artiss frowned. He’d expected resistance. Giants were notoriously stubborn but to deny victory out of sheer obstinacy was madness. “Even the mighty fall or have you forgotten the horrors of the Mage Wars? I come not to you with petty threats while attempting to rope you into doing my bidding. I am not my brothers. They fell from the light long ago. Disgraced into the shadows. What stands before you is the last, true Dae’shan as we were meant to be.”

He spun slowly to encompass all of their gazes.

“I humbly plead to each of you. Malweir needs your help. If the Giants of Venheim do not march on the ruins of Arlevon Gale I fear the dark gods will succeed. None will be safe. Not even you, hidden amongst the mountaintops. Do not think they have forgotten the injuries suffered by your ancestors’ hands. The dark gods will come for the Giants and eradicate you from the face of the world, or worse. Are you willing to take that chance?”

Blekling leaned forward. “We are not the ones to be cowed into action,
Dae’shan
. Our ways may have abandoned the rest of the world but it was through our own choosing. Not yours. What you see was created by our hands in our fashion. What need have we of the lowland races? Venheim can withstand the dark gods. We have done so before.”

“Not like this you haven’t. If the rest of the Dae’shan succeed, this world will become a nightmare the likes of which the most-skilled scholar can’t imagine. You’ll be chained and beaten into submission. If you’re fortunate. Carpets of bones will fill the plains. None will be spared.”

“He repeats himself too readily,” another Giant griped.

“We waste our time. Banish him from Venheim, Blekling.”

Frustrated, Artiss raised his skeletal hands and bolts of white-gold power flared across the ceiling. “Enough! This is not a question of who wants to help but who will. I have explained the consequences of inaction. You’ve hidden away from the rest of the world long enough. Now is the hour in which the Giants need to return and claim what is rightfully yours! Or will you entrust the fate of the entire world to the hands of a singular apprentice? The decision is yours. I obviously cannot force your hand. Yea or nay, choose now for the hour is almost expired.”

Darkness crept back across the ceiling. Artiss lowered his arms. He’d spoken his piece, hopefully driving a wedge in the popular opinion. Blekling had great strength if only he chose to use it. Artiss listened as the Giants argued among themselves in their primitive, guttural language. Heated words burst from a few. Rampant gestures towards Joden and Artiss. More than one angry finger pointed his way. It didn’t matter. Not when the balance of all life was in the way.

After what felt like hours the Giants ended their deliberations. One by one they fell silent and turned their granite-like gazes on the hovering Dae’shan. Artiss Gran had never felt so small. He heard Joden cough gently from behind, a subtle reminder that he was not alone. Not yet at any rate.

Blekling studied him for a moment, those large, hard eyes desperately searching for any sign of deception. Disdain clear upon his face, he spoke, “This council has decided. It is true, we have abandoned Malweir in favor of a simplistic lifestyle without envy or greed. We live our lives without suffering the indignities of many other races. But as you claim, the end of the cycle draws nigh. We will not, cannot, let it pass without making an effort to affect the outcome. You have your wish, Artiss Gran. The Giants of Venheim will once again go to war.”

The Black Guard

Boen roared as he slashed diagonally down across the soldier’s chest, ripping him open from neck to navel. A second soldier ducked in, hoping to deal the killing blow while the big Gaimosian was distracted. He failed. Utilizing lightning quick reflexes only a lifetime of combat could hone, Boen drove his elbow into the exposed soldier’s face. He was rewarded by the crisp snap and crunch of bones breaking. The soldier reeled away in pain, making it but a few steps before Boen finished the job.

Steam rose from the bodies littering the side of the trail. What was once pristine snow melted under the stain of crimson blood. It wouldn’t be long before vultures and wolves caught the scent of death. Boen wiped his blade on the nearest corpse and rose, stretching his back in the process. His chest burned. Breaths came in gasps. Each new engagement left him missing another piece of who he used to be. Boen scowled.

“That’s all of them,” Nothol announced, walking out of the small copse of white birch. “Nasty bastards skulking in the trees would have done you in with their crossbows.”

Boen spit. “Assassins. The Black Guard.”

“I didn’t think Harnin controlled any of those units,” Nothol questioned. The more he learned upon their return to Delranan the more his mood soured. This was clearly not the kingdom they had left all those months ago. He began to think returning might have been a serious miscalculation of his skills.

Boen gestured to the body at his feet. “This one has the right tools. The attitude. He didn’t want to fight me. Knew a Gaimosian was more than a match for any conventional soldier. Only an assassin would be foolish enough to keep attacking after he realized what I am.”

“We’ve got to get back to the others. Bahr needs to know this,” Nothol said hurriedly. He instinctively scanned the surrounding area for other half-hidden bodies laying in wait in the snow. The Black Guard were the nastiest of the Wolfsreik. Cold-blooded killers who smile as they slide a blade between your ribs. He’d seen their work once before and never wanted to again. Fear was a powerful motivator.

“Bring up the horses. I’ll make sure these are all dead.” Boen stalked off among the dozen corpses littering the immediate area. The tip of his sword sank with wet, sucking sounds into each body as he walked.

Bahr picked his head up at the sound of approaching riders. The sounds were heavy yet light enough to only be a few. He reached for the blackened crossbow on the wagon driver’s bench. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Rekka’s brown clad figure slipping behind trees, sword drawn. A bird sprinted from a nearby pine, breaking the building tension. Bahr’s eyes tirelessly searched the edge of his line of sight for confirmation of the riders. For the last two days they’d been forced to pick up speed, desperately trying to avoid the increased patrols. Clearly their enemy was searching for them. Urgency drove them on. They’d suffered enough delays since returning to Delranan they couldn’t afford many more. Anienam’s insistence that time was nearly up forced Bahr to avoid the Wolfsreik rather than engage.

He relaxed when Rekka slipped back into view and waved her gloved hand. It was Boen and Nothol returning from their scouting mission. Bahr spied the dried blood on the Gaimosian’s armor as he rode into view. He frowned.
So much for avoiding detection
.

“Did any escape?” he asked after climbing down from the wagon to greet them.

Nothol’s face darkened.

Boen, glowering, replied, “One. We didn’t find his tracks until after we mounted up.”

“It won’t be long before that one returns with a platoon at least,” Bahr cursed. “We need to move.”

“It gets worse,” Nothol added without hesitation. “These were no ordinary scouts. They were Black Guard. We’re being hunted by assassins.”

“I was under the impression they were all deployed to Rogscroft,” Bahr said. “We can’t hope to fight them off, not if they’ve brought sufficient strength.”

Boen scoffed. “They died easily enough.”

“Only because they underestimated you. That lone survivor will know what you are now, Boen. When he returns it will be with enough to kill us all, Groge included.” Urgency gilded Bahr’s voice. If he still had the
Dragon’s Bane
they’d be able to outrun the Black Guard. But on land…thinking of being caught soured his stomach.

“I will stay behind. Draw them off your trail,” the Gaimosian suggested.

Bahr was tempted to allow him but Anienam’s previous warning blared in his mind. They were all needed at the final battle if Malweir had any chance of salvation. There could be no deviation and, having already suffered two losses, were at a disadvantage. Losing Ionascu didn’t bother the old Sea Wolf much, but the disappearance of his niece haunted his nights. Not knowing her fate tormented him to the point he was sorely tempted to abandon the quest. Only his vow kept him on course.

“No,” he replied. “The wizard says we’re all needed at the end. That means you, Boen. We still have a few hours, perhaps a day, before whoever commands can organize a full war party.”

“To what end? There are only so many places we can run to and our tracks will be found easily,” Boen countered. “We should stand and fight.”

Bahr shook his head. “There is no time. We need to ride, now. Delranan is a vast kingdom with plenty of areas to get lost in. As long as we keep pushing east we should reach the ruins of Arlevon Gale before our enemy.”

What then? Don’t be so foolish as to think our foes aren’t prepared for our arrival. Not if Artiss Gran was correct. We’re in for one nasty fight. A fight I don’t think many of us are going to walk away from.
Bahr blinked his frustration away.
Don’t get carried away, old man. We’ve still got many leagues to cross, an army to avoid, and who knows how many other trials before reaching our final destination. Let the future deal with itself when it arrives
.

Clearly disgruntled, Boen merely nodded. “Very well, but we need to leave now. There is no time and I don’t trust the path ahead to be clear.”

“We could be riding into a trap,” Nothol added.

“A chance we must take,” Bahr said. “Bring in the others. We make for the ruins.”

“It’s no use. We’re cut off,” Rekka announced after returning to the wagon. Slightly out of breath, her brown skin coated in a fine sheen of sweat, she bore a worried look.

“How many?” Bahr asked, quicker than he intended.

“Scores. Perhaps a hundred. Captain, we’re going to have to fight.”

Damnation. So close. Only to have the Black Guard catch us. I should never have returned here. Delranan doesn’t need me and I don’t need this
. “How much time do we have?”

“An hour, maybe less.”

“It’ll be dark by then,” Dorl chimed.

His mood darkened at the prospect of having to claw through yet another battle. Killing turned his stomach. He lacked the necessary conviction required to do his work properly and it was starting to show. The others gradually backed away as he battled his demons. There was only so much a man could take before breaking or changing into something altogether different.

Bahr caught his worried look and decided there was no time for complacency. Dorl Theed could wait.
Or die in the process
. “Making it easier for us to defend. They have to look harder and I’ll wager Rekka, Ironfoot, and Boen will take a goodly number out long before they get within range of Groge and the wizard. I want the wagon ready to move. Keep the horses with Skuld and Anienam. The rest of you break off into teams and form a defensive perimeter. This is going to get ugly.”

They moved the wagon under cover of large pine boughs. A small hill blocked the southern approach with a field of boulders that peppered the landscape to the east. Bahr felt the position offered the best, most realistic chance of defense without exposing them needlessly to enemy scouts. Covering their tracks as best they could, the group settled into the mindset that their night was about to get interesting.

Each group was in position just before the sun dropped over the edge of the world. Lost in half light and shadow, they waited. Boen and Ironfoot took the eastern road, fully expecting the main attack to come from ahead rather than behind. Harnin’s forces were largely incompetent but these were the Black Guard. The very best, and worst, the Wolfsreik had to offer. Nothol and Dorl headed west, despite Dorl’s hesitations. Nothol feared his friend was going to get them both killed, but it was a risk he had no alternative to taking.

Groge took the northern flank. His inexperience was enough to seal off that sector of the perimeter. Bahr didn’t expect more than a feint from the north or south. Even should the enemy come in force down from the north they would run headlong into a Giant. Not even the Black Guard had been tested against such. Bahr slipped to the south, allowing Rekka free range further out. At his age and physical impediments he’d only be in her way. She was young yet and agile enough to kill a dozen men on her own.

An owl hooted from the distant tree line. The call was deep and raw as it floated across the snows. Bahr idly thumbed the keen edge of his blade lightly enough not to get cut. He hated waiting for a fight. The prospect that the Black Guard would bypass them was minimal, though he couldn’t be certain they weren’t being toyed with. Badron’s assassin corps was shifty enough to string the group along all the way to Arlevon Gale without forcing a decisive engagement. No, he decided. His gut told him the enemy was crawling through the undergrowth even now, coming to kill them all and recover the hammer for Harnin One Eye.

A twig snapped. Bahr slowly raised his eyes in the direction of the noise. The owl had stopped hooting somewhere in between. The old man’s heart quickened.
This is it. Come and show yourselves to my blade, murderers. Let’s end this
. Light wind blew loose snow softly around his ankle, obscuring any sounds in the process. Bahr tensed. The first black-clad assassin stalked into the perimeter, intent on making it to the wagon. Bahr paused, trying to discern their goal. His lips pursed when he realized the assassins were going to try to kill the wizard, thus cripple the quest immeasurably. Gripping his sword tighter, he readied to push off of the tree to attack.

He was too late. Rekka appeared out of the night, sword swinging harshly across the back of the assassin’s neck, severing his spinal column. The Black Guard collapsed with barely a gurgle before Rekka stabbed into his unarmored heart. Jerking the sword clear, she gave Bahr a crisp nod before returning to the night. Message understood, the Sea Wolf carefully made his way back to the wagon. The southern approach was secure better without him getting in the way.

Ironfoot clenched and unclenched his meaty fists a hundred times since taking up position among a group of small boulders. His axe resting within reach against a boulder, the Dwarf used his superb night vision to continually scan his area. Others in the group were growing tired of fighting. Tired of constantly being hounded by one villain or another. He didn’t mind. It was a far cry from the relative boredom of living in Drimmen Delf. At least here he got to fill his thirst for action.

His axes already had more nicks and dulled edges than ever in his long career, save perhaps the civil war against the dark Dwarf clans. His muscles ached from exertion. His mind sharpened with each new engagement as the enemy continued to show new facets. Ironfoot knew he was starting to enjoy their running battle with Harnin’s forces. It gave him something to do during the seemingly endless leagues of open roads he’d been forced to travel since joining the quest at Bode Hill.

Night vision second only to Groge, Ironfoot immediately picked out the handful of men slinking towards the wagon. He struggled not to grin as his hand grasped his axe. Glancing right, he spotted Boen with his back pressed against a tree. The Gaimosian wasn’t moving. Only the faint glow of his eyes could be seen roving. The Dwarf couldn’t risk alerting Boen, however, without raising the alarm for the assassins. A slight scrape announced the axe coming free of the boulder.

Ironfoot crouched, shifting his center of gravity to leap forward. His last true engagement was against the river men. The Black Guard were professionals, bereft of the clumsy incompetence of the murdering thieves. The Dwarf knew he was about to be tested. He allowed a savage grin to spread across his weathered face. Ironfoot hefted his axe and attacked.

The assassin had time to swing his head in the direction Lord Death approached before dark and cold claimed him. Headless, the body flopped onto the snow while three others reeled back in surprise. Ironfoot bellowed an ancient Dwarven battle cry and leapt into the middle. His axe wove intricate patterns. Cutting. Hacking. An arm fell. Blood sprayed. Entrails spilled out of torn-open bellies. The Dwarf pressed his assault until all of the assassins lay dead in a circle. Breathing hard, he chanced a look to Boen. The Gaimosian had his own struggles.

Towering over the field, Groge narrowed his eyes to slits as cold winds caressed his face and hands. Such simple gifts reminded him of Venheim. Thoughts of home left him melancholic. He enjoyed seeing different kingdoms, visiting strange and unusual places, but the young apprentice began to think it was past time to head home. He belonged in the heat of the forges, not striding aimlessly across endless fields of snow.