Stormblade

33

Home, Stanach thought. I’m home!

Using his left hand and his shoulder, he rolled another cairn stone to the growing pile. He’d been reminding himself since dawn that he was, indeed, home. Now, with the sunset light red on the walls of the Valley of the Thanes, he still needed reminding. It wasn’t that Thorbardin had changed. Stone and steel, the place was still the same. He had changed. Stanach shied from the memory of his reunion with his parents, with his friends. He didn’t like to recall their shock when they’d seen his ruined hand, or the way they’d looked at him when they realized he was not the quiet, peaceable forgeman they’d known only a few short weeks ago. He’d been in the Outlands, and he’d come home changed.

The difference had not to do with his injury. It had more to do with the stranger they saw in his eyes. Dark-eyed, he was, and knife-scarred, changed somehow by looking at horizons more distant than those many dwarves had seen.

The wind cut, sharp and cold, through the Valley of the Thanes. The valley was the only part of Thorbardin open to the sky. In ancient times, it had been a cavern. Now, the cavern long since collapsed, the sinkhole had become a valley, holding a small lake and carefully tended gardens on the water’s edge. The barrows of lesser folk lined the edges of the valley. The cairns of thanes and high kings stood in the gardens.

If the Valley of the Thanes was where the dwarves buried their dead, it was also where they, normally great mistrusters of magic, rejoiced in the working of enchantment. High above the lake, its shadow cutting always across the water and the valley, hung Duncan’s Tomb. Nothing supported the tomb but the spell of some long-dead mage.

Here Duncan was entombed, the last High King of the Dwarves. None had reigned in Thorbardin for all the three hundred years since his death. Despite the lives lost to regain the Kingsword Stormblade, none would reign in Thorbardin again. Kharas, Duncan’s friend and champion, had hidden his war hammer with the aid of magic and the god who had made it. None had found it since.

Hornfel would be high king, Isarn had said.

Stanach shook his head. No, Hornfel would not sit on the high king’s throne. He was king regent, though Reorx knew he’d guard the kingdom as though he were high king. That would have to be enough. Stanach leaned against the pile of stone and dragged an arm across his face. Sweat and dirt grimed the loose, white forgeman’s shirt he wore. He’d not stand before a forge again, but he knew no more comfortable clothes than this old shirt and the brown leather breeches he’d once worn for forge work. There were people who would have done this cairn building for him, stonemasons and diggers whose job it was to do it. Stanach would have none build Tyorl’s cairn but himself.

Of Piper’s cairn, built on the lonely edge of Qualinesti, Tyorl had said: You’re skilled enough at it. Your friends don’t live very long, Stanach. How many cairns have you built since you left Thorbardin ?

Then, Kelida, standing watch on the hilltop, had murmured protest at what she perceived as the elf’s cruelty. Stanach had not thought the words cruel then, he didn’t think them cruel now. Only true.

The dwarf’s lips twitched in a crooked, humorless smile. Piper’s had been the first cairn he’d ever built. Tyorl’s would be the second.

“And the last,” he whispered. “Aye, the last, Tyorl. Though I’d never thought to be building yours and never here in the Valley of the Thanes, in the shadow of a high king’s tomb.”

The wind whistled high and then dropped low around the walls of the valley, a slow, sad dirge. Stanach thought of Piper’s flute. They were mourning in Thorbardin and not the least for the mage Jordy, whom the children had named Piper.

Lavim, perverse and adamant, still insisted that though Piper was dead, the mage spoke to him, whispering inside his head. Mostly lecturing and scolding, according to the kender.

Stanach bent to his work again. He hadn’t the heart for believing in ghosts. Piper was dead. He’d buried him just as he was preparing to bury Tyorl now.

They were seven who gathered in the Valley of the Thanes, under the shadow of Duncan’s Tomb and in twilight’s fragile glow, to honor Tyorl. It was a measure of Hornfel’s gratitude toward the elf who had died in saving his life that he had commanded that Tyorl’s cairn be erected in the gardens that had been, until now, the inviolable precincts of thanes and kings. It was a measure of his respect that he would speak Tyorl’s eulogy. Why, Stanach wondered, did Hornfel carry Stormblade with him into the Valley of the Thanes?

Grimy and sweating still, Stanach watched as Kelida, with Hauk beside her, took her place beside the grave. The dwarf smiled, for the first time genuinely. The two had been together only a few days. They moved in concert now as though they’d known the way of each other for years. Kembal and Finn carried Tyorl’s body into the valley and laid it within the grave that Stanach had made. The piles of stones seemed like heaped darkness beside the frame of Tyorl’s cairn. The rangers went to stand beside Hauk. They were the last of the Nightmare Company, come to bid a brother farewell.

With a quiet deference to the friends gathered here, Hornfel grounded Stormblade’s point as though in salute and leaned the Kingsword against the piled stones before he took his place at the foot of the cairn. Lavim, green eyes quiet and solemn, came to stand beside Stanach. The dwarf hoped he wasn’t going to start talking about ghosts now.

Lavim reached up to gently pat Stanach’s shoulder. “You did all this?”

Stanach nodded grimly.

“It’s very nice,” he whispered. He cocked a thumb at Duncan’s Tomb. “But the shadow of that big floating thing kind of gets in the way, don’t you think? Piper says it’s Duncan’s Tomb and—”

Stanach closed his eyes. “Hush, Lavim. Not now.”

The wind, cold and thin, fluted through the Valley of the Thanes. Its song did not disturb the silence of those gathered by the cairn but framed it.

When he spoke, Hornfel quoted the wisdom of the proverb he’d remembered on the Northgate wall with revolution boiling at his back and guyll fyr raging at his feet.

“The wolf at the door,” he said softly, “will make brothers of strangers. The wolf’s been snapping and howling outside Thorbardin, and for too long we’ve bolted our doors against him, believing that there is no wolf if we don’t hear him.

“We hear the howling now, who have too long ignored it. We hear it in the mourning of the kin-reft, in the cries of those who die under the claws and fangs of war.

“We hear the wolf’s howl in the wind of the dragons’ wings. Tyorl silenced it for a moment, but we will hear it again.”

Hornfel lifted his eyes then and looked at each person gathered at the cairn.

“But we see, too. We see brothers where we once thought strangers stood. We see kin, if not kind. And kin we’ve too long turned away from, kin who have tried to silence the wolf’s bloody howl while we waited for it to leave, to hunt some other ground.

“The wolf won’t leave; Verminaard still ranges our lands, and the war will not go away until it has stolen everything and everyone. As it has stolen Tyorl.

“I mourn with you for the death of a friend.”

Lost in his sorrow for Tyorl’s death and the echoes of past mourning; Stanach didn’t realize that Hornfel had finished until he felt, and then heard, a change in the wind’s tenor. He looked up at Kelida, directly across the cairn. Head cocked, the last light catching in her red hair, she seemed to have noticed the change, too.

Hauk glanced at Kembal. Finn tilted his head back to look up at the dark rim of the valley.

Lavim drew a short breath and let it out in a soft, wondering sigh. Stanach turned in time to see the kender take an old flute from his pocket. Piper’s flute.

Listening for only a moment, as though to assure himself of the melody and his proper place to join it, the kender raised the flute to his lips and began to play. The hard walls of the Valley of the Thanes became faint and gray as ancient memories.

Sunlight danced down a silver river, and Stanach not only saw the jeweled play of light, he smelled the rich, dark mud on the water’s banks, tasted the sweet river itself.

Diamond ice sheathed winter trees, melting at the touch of a hand and sliding away to make new jewels. Kelida lifted her hand, touched a finger to her lips, and Stanach felt the cold on his own lips.

Dew drifting back to the sky on the summer sun glistened on Hauk’s face; like tears it crept into his dark beard. Like a wraith, or only the dew that it was, it vanished under the sunlight. It took a moment longer for the tears to dry on Stanach’s face.

In days after, he would try to capture the melody of that song. Always, though he would remember and see again the images of the forest he saw in the shadowless light of gloaming, the song would elude him except as the half-remembered laughter of wind in the trees.

Lavim dropped to his heels, and watched as Hauk, Kembal, and Finn arranged the last of the cairn stones over Tyorl. The sound of that sad building echoed hollowly throughout the valley.

“I didn’t mean to make them cry,” the kender whispered.

Aye, spellcaster? Piper’s voice was very gentle. What did you mean to do then?

“I wanted to make a song for them to remember Tyorl by, that’s all.”

He sighed and shook his head, listening to the wind that was only wind now. “And—and I know that Stanach built this cairn here all by himself, and that Hornfel said he could be buried with kings and thanes. But it seemed kind of sad that Tyorl wouldn’t be in his woods anymore. I wanted them to remember Qualinesti for him.”

And they will. You crafted a fine song, Lavim.

Lavim frowned then. “I did? All by myself? It wasn’t you or the flute?”

Who’s was the intent?

“Mine.”

Then it was your song, aye?

He’d done magic all by himself! Lavim scrambled to his feet, eyes wide. “Piper! Did I—”

Hush, now, Lavim! It’s not over yet. Watch—quietly!—for a moment more. And then, just do as I tell you.

Stormblade sang the high song of steel as Hornfel withdrew the Kingsword from its scabbard. Though the last light had fled from the Valley of the Thanes, the blade’s red steel heart shone. The light of Reorx’s forge pulsed gently, spilling it’s crimson glow across the faces of those gathered by the completed cairn.

Like bloody shadows, Stanach thought.

Then, caught by the glow, caught by the light of the Kingsword he had helped to forge and remembering suddenly the joy of Stormblade’s making, the promise of its steel heart and the hope it represented, Stanach thought again.

Not like bloody shadows at all, though Reorx knew enough blood had been shed for Stormblade. Bloody shadows would be cold as death. The light of the Kingsword shone bright in the darkness of this burial place. Like a lantern in a brave man’s hand. Aye, like that.

Hornfel raised Stormblade high and even the shadow of Duncan’s Tomb did not obscure its light.

The wind fell silent. Those standing by Tyorl’s cairn lifted their heads a little as though, all at the same moment, they scented something in the silence.

Stanach heard Lavim catch his breath, a sharp sound of delighted surprise.

Hornfel grounded the gleaming blade on the largest stone of the cairn, a soldier’s farewell. As the blade tip touched the stone, Stormblade’s light seemed to grow momentarily brighter, shattering the darkness, just as Lavim’s laughter, a gleeful whoop, shattered the silence.

“Of course! Of course!” the kender cried.

Kelida gasped. Stanach turned sharply, reaching for the kender to grab and silence him. Lavim, nimble and quick, ducked out of Stanach’s reach and scrambled around Tyorl’s cairn to Hornfel.

“I know where it is! I know where it is! Piper told me! He kind of suspected it all along, ever since you got your sword back. Me, I wanted to go get it right away, but he said no, he wasn’t sure yet. It’s been like an itch in his mind, he said. But he had to wait. Once he came here, he knew. He says he’s been in the valley a few times before, but that was when he was alive and couldn’t see things the way he does now that he’s dead.

“You’re never going to believe it! Hornfel—sir! I know where it is!”

Finn grabbed the old kender by the shoulders, lifting him right off his feet. “Damn, kender! Now what? Can’t we have a moment’s peace from you, even now?”

Hornfel, his eyes still on the Kingsword, whose light was dimming as he watched, motioned for the rangerlord to release Lavim. “What, Lavim? You know where what is?”

Lavim took a quick step away from Finn. He looked up at Hornfel, his grin threatening to split his face. “Piper told me. I know where it is. I’d’ve told you sooner, but I didn’t really know what he was talking about. He said that this business of being king regent wasn’t for you. I said I wouldn’t know about that, but you didn’t really look much like a fellow who’d watch the store while the shopkeeper has his dinner. He said to tell you to bring Stormblade tonight, and he’d show me, because the Kingsword would know where it is. And I said, sure, I’d do that—”

Light as spider’s feet, anticipation crawled along Stanach’s spine. Isarn’s last words whispered in his memory. “Lavim!” he shouted. “Out with it!”

Startled, Lavim jumped and turned wide eyes to Stanach. “I’m trying to tell Hornfel something really important here, young Stanach. Just once I’d like to get through something without being interrupted. Now,” He turned back to Hornfel. “Where was I? Oh, right. I know where the Hammer of Kharas is.”

Hornfel, his hand still on Stormblade’s grip, stared at the kender with an aching mixture of disbelief and hope. “Where?” he whispered.

“Oh, not far from here at all.” Lavim laughed. “Not very far at all.

“Of course, you’ll have to send someone to get it. A few people probably ’cause you know that Kharas hid it real well. He made it invisible and guarded it with all kinds of traps and magic because he didn’t want just anybody finding it. He wanted a real high king to find it. Someone like Duncan, you see. Someone like you.”

“Where?” Hornfel whispered again.

Lavim smiled and pointed straight up.

Hornfel looked up at the sky. Stanach, following Hornfel’s gaze, stared at the first faintly glittering stars and saw the red star that dwarves call an ember from the Forge.

No, he thought, oh, Lavim, what are you on about now?

Kelida, following Lavim’s point exactly, gasped and touched Stanach’s arm. Hauk grinned and nodded.

“Not the sky, Stanach.” Kelida said, her voice shaking with wonder and sudden understanding. “The tomb.”

Lavim nodded. “Right. Duncan’s Tomb. Where else would it be?”

Stanach looked at Hornfel, head bowed over the red-hearted Kingsword in his hand. He saw the High King of the Dwarves.

“Hornfel King,” he whispered.

Hornfel raised his head, and Stanach dropped to his knee, suddenly moved to this rare gesture of homage. He spoke before he thought, but the words were heart-spoken none-the-less.

“Hornfel King, the Hammer is yours. I’ll find it. I’ll bring it back.”

“Oh, yes!” Lavim cried, stepping quickly to Stanach’s side. “It won’t be hard at all. There’s just a few little traps, some magic stuff and things like that. Piper knows all about it, and we’ll be able to get in and out before you know it.”

Stanach turned. “We?”

“You and me and Piper and—” Lavim looked at the rangers and Kelida. “And whoever else wants to come along. I figured everyone would because—well, what else are they going to do all by themselves here in Thorbardin while you and me and Piper are off getting the Hammer?

“You know how these things are, Stanach. It might take a day or two.”

Full night settled on the Valley of the Thanes. Shadows became darkness. Stanach, sitting on the ground beside Tyorl’s cairn, looked up at Kelida.

“ ‘A day or two,’ he says.” He crooked a wry smile. “Or says Piper says.”

“Stanach, do you believe that?”

The dwarf shrugged. “There’s no denying that Finn backs up his story of Piper guiding them through the defile. Lavim says that Piper guided Tyorl’s crossbow when he killed the dragon.” Stanach was silent for a long moment. “He was a fine shot, Tyorl. But—”

Kelida nodded. “It was dark. No one could have seen through that to aim so perfectly at the dragon’s one vulnerable spot. It would be nice to think …”

Stanach sighed. It would be nice to think that Piper was, in some way, still with him. It would be nice to think—

Stanach drew back, scowling. “I’m going after the Hammer of Kharas on the word of a ghost-haunted kender?”

“We’re going after the Hammer.”

“We, eh?”

Kelida dropped to a seat beside him and did not answer the question. She ran a forefinger lightly along a cairn stone. After a moment she said,

“I’ll miss him.”

“Aye, so will I.”

Kelida turned suddenly, the color high in her cheeks. “Stanach, I said it in the Deep Warrens, I’ll say it now: I go where Hauk goes. I go where you go. I will help you find the Hammer of Kharas.”

Stanach looked up at the tomb suspended above the lake. The calm, icy waters feathered in a light breeze. Starlight softened the water’s black surface to gray as it lapped gently against the shore.

Kelida covered his ruined hand gently with hers.

The dwarf rose and pulled her to her feet. “We’d best get back. I don’t recall that Lavim ever gave Piper’s flute to Hornfel. I’ve heard enough about what he’s done with it, and there’ll be no sleeping for me until it’s safely in Hornfel’s hands.”

Kelida walked silently beside him as they left the Valley of the Thanes. When he paused at the gate into the mountain and looked back, Stanach saw the shadow of Duncan’s Tomb, cast in Solinari’s light, shrouding Tyorl’s cairn.

The breeze became a low singing wind, and Stanach entered Thorbardin thinking of forests.