The Golden Orb

21

The two halves of the golden orb lay open on the Alchemist’s workbench. One of them would soon be filled with the lethal powder mixture. The other would be filled with the potion, then the halves would be sealed together.

The Alchemist had some work to do before he finalized the powder, and for that he needed to concentrate, to forget about the new danger menacing him. After all, he had guards-six bull ogres of the Dowager Queen’s personal escort-and was high up in the tower of the lofty castle. He ought to be safe, beyond the reach of any intruder.

He set to work with a vengeance, his movements swift and precise. At least, such was his intention. Increasingly, however, his fingers trembled, or he found himself leaning on the bench to catch his breath, fighting dizziness.

He proceeded, as best as he could. First, he distilled acid over a low fire, allowing the caustic material to sizzle through a series of tubes until it collected in a glass decanter. He mixed gold dust with the sacred ashes in a great vat, while sorting other elements into a centrifuge powered by the pedaling of an ogre watchman.

In fact, all six of his guards crowded his lab, stood too close, stepped on his toes, and generally got in the way. His impatience grew until finally the Alchemist barked at them.

“Stand back, you louts! Do you want to call down the wrath of the Dowager Queen?”

The warning had the desired effect. The guards, all afraid of the elder ogress-with good cause, he knew-withdrew to the far side of the laboratory. There they watched him with narrowed eyes and muttered growls. He ignored them, focusing anew upon his work.

He found his attention wandering again, musing on the danger presented to him by this elf the king had called the Messenger. For more than a decade the Alchemist had feared such a vengeful visitor. He had long expected that, somehow, the elves, his people, would find him and punish him.

He felt like weeping. Couldn’t they see? It was a matter of survival. He just did what he needed to do, in order to stay alive! The Alchemist strayed to the window, looked across the barren landscape as if he expected to see his elf nemesis creeping down a mountain toward him.

Finally, the preparations were done. The precious powder had been carefully and completely mixed, rinsed with pure acid. The Alchemist gingerly collected it in a several shallow dishes. At last, he sat down, crossed his arms before him, and cradled his head in the bony crevice of his elbows, trying to calm himself. His limbs finally ceased their trembling, and he rose and reached for one of the dishes.

An ogre guard standing near the door sneezed, and the Alchemist started, jumping back from the bench, the dish wobbling precariously on the lip of the work surface.

“Imbecile!” he cried, pointing a trembling finger at the ashen-faced guard. “You could have killed us all!”

“I beg your lordship’s pardon!” pleaded the ogre, bowing abjectly.

“Out of here! I want you all out of here, now!” cried the Alchemist. “It’s the only way I can work.”

“We are supposed to guard you, lord,” said one of the other brutes, the sergeant in charge of the guards.

“Then stand outside my door! I cannot function like this, with you all sniffling and snorting and growling in here! Do you not realize a single mistake and we could all be blown to pieces?”

Apparently that dire possibility was enough to convince the ogres. In any event, they pushed and elbowed at each other in their haste to depart the laboratory. The last one to leave shut the door very gently behind him.

The Alchemist was glad to be left alone. Looking around, he leaped to the window and closed the heavy wooden shutter that held the Sturmfrost at bay every winter. Latching the barrier, he allowed himself to feel reasonably well protected against intrusion by guards or a vengeance-seeking elf.

He turned back to his work, tried to summon the will to lift the dishes of powder, to pour the grainy substance into the orb. But he didn’t have the desire to move. A terrible ennui seized him, dragged him down, cemented him in place. His consciousness wavered until he finally crumpled forward, as though tumbling into a pit of merciful oblivion.

Something caused him to lift his head from his arms and to stare in the direction of the sea. It was as though a chill wind pressed through those walls, numbing his flesh.

Slowly, unsteadily, he pushed himself to his feet and lurched toward the door. His invention was ready, the great weapon needed only to be sealed, but that was unimportant, now.

The Alchemist knew, somehow he knew, he felt it in the pit of his soul, that the elf was coming for him.

Kerrick was surprised by the ease of underwater travel, as-in spite of a few fits and starts and one more harrowing, unplanned plunge into the depths-Captain Pneumo guided his cylindrical craft into the very shadow of the great, dark massif that was Dracoheim Island. Finally, as Whalefish moved into the shallows, Kerrick felt the deck begin to pitch and roll under his feet. This was a reaction to the surf billowing around them, the gnome explained.

Face pressed to a hooded aperture, Kerrick was amazed at the view provided by a device of mirrors that, Pneumo explained, was thrust above the water, allowing the crew of the submersible to examine their surroundings. He called it a “Perry-scope,” for reasons Kerrick had not yet learned. In any event, the elf was more concerned with what he saw than with how he saw it.

They seemed to be in a narrow cove, sheltered by brooding cliffs to port and starboard, with a shelf of steeply sloping beach before them. He couldn’t tell if that shore was sand or fine gravel, but he was struck by the dark, almost pure black, color of the ground. Beyond the beach the island’s land mass rose steeply, in some places precipitously, though the bluff was broken by a series of narrow ravines that rose inland for at least a short distance.

Whalefish was submerged in these shallows, close enough to the surface that each breaker lifted the vessel as it passed, then dropped it again to rest on the sandy bed of the cove. The elf pulled his face away and saw that Randall, Strongwind, and Moreen were watching him expectantly, waiting at the base of the ladder leading up to the hatch.

“We should be able to swim from here,” Kerrick said. “We’re not more than a hundred paces off shore.”

“Help me little bit?” Divid asked, tugging on the elf’s sleeve. “Me not much swimmer.”

“Yes, we’ll get you to shore,” Kerrick agreed. “Then it will be up to you to show us where the Alchemist can be found.”

“Me know the Alkist,” nodded the little fellow. Then he scowled. “Know where him live. Him don’t like us kind.” Again the gully dwarf reached a blunt finger into his nose, rooting around vigorously for some offending obstruction.

“I can’t understand why,” the elf said, looking away with a grimace. He noticed Moreen laughing at him, her single eye flashing, and he couldn’t help but grin back.

They had a plan, though Kerrick knew it would take some really good luck for them to pull it off successfully. The gully dwarf would lead them into the castle through a small tunnel used only by his people. They would go ashore in three relays, leaving Terac to watch the submersible. Pneumo assured them that the gully dwarf could guide the boat to the bottom of the shallow cove, and wait there as long as necessary for the others to return-or until he ran out of warquat, which would take about three days according to the gnomish inventor. Pneumo would make his way along mountain trails to a mining village, a place he had visited previously.

Strongwind and Moreen would strike out overland and distract any ogre patrols they encountered. Randall and Kerrick, guided by Divid, would sneak into the castle, up to the Alchemist’s chamber, and… and do what was necessary.

He and Mad Randall were prepared for the Alchemist to put up a fight. If he did, they would kill him. There was no choice-the very survival of Brackenrock, perhaps of all human civilization in the Icereach, depended on stopping the manufacture of another golden orb.

“Did you see any sign of ogres or anything else through that Perry-scope?” asked the chiefwoman.

The elf shook his head. They heard a clank of metal and turned to see Captain Pneumo emerge from his small cabin. The gnome was wrapped in a great coil of rope and draped with pouches and packs. A metal helmet, several sizes too large for him, was perched on his head, drooping forward so that it covered one of his eyes.

“What’s this?” asked Kerrick cautiously.

“I’m dressed for any eventuality,” declared Pneumo. “I’ve got pearls for trading, here in my beltpack, and these other sacks I’ll fill with gold. I’ve got to bring enough for a long voyage, you know.”

“Makes sense,” Randall agreed with an easy nod.

Kerrick had misgivings but decided not to argue. After all, the gnome’s mission-gaining fuel for his arcane boilers-was important to the submersible, and the submersible represented their only chance to escape from Dracoheim.

“All right,” the elf said. “Let’s get going.”

With a boost from Randall the gnome made it to the hatch, turned the release valve, and pushed it open. Squirming upward, he vanished from sight. Divid went next, followed by Randall, Strongwind, Moreen, and Kerrick, each scrambling up onto the slick, round hull. After the elf pushed the hatch shut, he heard Terac cranking the valve behind him.

Outside of the Whalefish, the sky seemed impossibly bright. The submersible rested in relatively shallow water, but they still had a way to go before reaching dry land.

“No time for delay-let’s go!” said Moreen, the first of the companions to slide down the curved hull into the sea.

A moment later Pneumo, buoyed by his many pouches, which served as floats, was splashing around in the surf, while the four survivors from Cutter swam toward shore, nervously scanning the dark island for signs of ogres. The elf, the strongest swimmer, kept one arm around Divid, dragging the gully dwarf along with him. Divid kicked and squirmed but couldn’t break Kerrick’s grip.

Finally the elf’s feet scuffed against the rocky beach. Divid peeled away, springing out of the water with surprisingly good balance as, crawling and sputtering, Kerrick pulled himself out of the surf. He saw that Moreen and Randall were emerging to his right, while Strongwind-his sword at the ready-strode out of the water to the left.

“Where’s Captain Pneumo?” Kerrick asked, turned to scrutinize the breakers.

The next big wave trundled in, and the elf spotted the gnome, tumbling in the shallows. Kerrick grabbed the coughing captain by the scruff of his neck and pulled him to his feet, then helped him stumble forward until all six of the companions stood next to each other on the shore.

The black beach consisted of fine sand interspersed with small rocks. In places patches of lighter material swirled through delicate spirals, but the overall effect was of eerie darkness. It was near midnight, with the sun low in the south, hidden behind the heights surrounding this cove.

They made haste inland, jogging across a fringe of flat ground and into the mouth of one of the ravines leading upward. Crouching amid some large boulders that had tumbled to the base of the draw, they made their final plans.

“Which way from here?” Kerrick asked Captain Pneumo.

“To the top of this bluff, for starters,” the gnome explained. “The village where I get my gold is just on the other side of the pass. I’ll head there, fill my pouches, and be back here before the sun makes a full circle. Don’t worry-I’ll wait for you, even if it takes you more time.

“You’ll be able to see the castle from up there,” Pneumo continued. “There’s lots of broken ground-you should be able to get close without being spotted. It will be up to Divid to show you the way into the castle.”

“If we are spotted, Strongwind and I will lead the ogres on a merry chase, while you and Randall and Divid stay hidden,” Moreen said firmly. She pointed a finger in Kerrick’s face. “You have the most important job. Somehow you have to find this Alchemist and stop him. We’ll do everything we can to see that you succeed.”

The elf and Randall nodded solemnly.

“Anyway, we all have to make this climb, so let’s get going,” suggested Strongwind Whalebone. “We should hurry away from here, in case anyone noticed us coming ashore.”

With Randall in the lead, they began to climb. The dirt in the ravine was soft, black in color but grainy like sand, prone to cascading down on them they tried to scramble up. It caught in their fingernails, scuffed and abraded their hands and knees. Once Divid tumbled backward, thumping into the elf’s chest, and the two of them slid down for twenty or thirty feet before Kerrick could arrest their fall.

An hour later the berserker was the first to reach the crest. He turned to assist Moreen and Pneumo. Strong-wind, the gully dwarf, and Kerrick came last, arriving at a rocky plateau. A lofty castle, spiderwebs of arched bridges connecting slender, tall towers, rose from a knoll a few miles away. Commanding a view in all directions, the place was dark and forbidding. The elf turned to Moreen, ready to express his apprehension, and saw that she was looking off in the other direction.

“I think I see trouble,” she said in a low voice.

“You’re right,” Randall said cheerfully as he followed her gaze. Four large figures, each armed with a sword and a spear, were jogging toward them along the top of the bluff.

“Looks like a welcoming party,” the elf said grimly.

“The orb is nearly complete,” declared the Dowager Queen, looking down her nose at her son as though she expected him to quibble. “My guards tell me that the Alchemist needs only to seal the two halves with a bead of gold.”

“Good,” Grimwar snapped. “We can get out of this place and get on with the business of destroying Brackenrock. We leave today, and we take the orb with us!”

His mother and his wife glanced at each other in the fire-warmed study high within the fortress of Dracoheim. The king didn’t notice. He was standing at the window, gazing at the pale shimmering sun. More than two months of constant daylight had already passed this summer. It would be at only three more weeks, he knew, before the golden sun vanished for the duration of the year. His attention was sharply drawn back to the room by Stariz.

“Your mother has decided to return to Winterheim with us,” she announced.

The king wheeled in surprise, and after a moment he remembered his manners, forcing a smile.

“That is splendid news, indeed,” he said, with a dignified nod of his head. “I am glad you have decided to be more… flexible.”

Hanna snorted and glared at him, a look that he wished he could decipher. He flushed under the feeling that his mother could see right into his soul, could discern all of the emotions mingling there, emotions that right now centered around another ogress, far away from here.

“I am not pleased,” said the Dowager Queen-apparently she was reading his mind! — “that you have chosen to ignore my wishes in the matter of the harlot Thraid Dimmarkull. You know that she humiliated me and made your father behave like a fool!”

Grimwar drew himself up to his full, eight-foot-plus height. “I am the king now, and she has done nothing to me to call reproach down upon herself. I repeat: I shall not have her punished simply to soothe your need for vengeance.”

“I know this,” Hanna said sternly, “and yet I have decided to return in spite of your stubbornness. Your wife has convinced me that it is the gracious thing to do. I trust you will see that my dignity is not affronted.”

“Ahem. You will be welcomed in Winterheim as the Dowager Queen, of course. You shall have your choice of apartments in the Royal Quarter and will he treated with honor wherever you go in the city. These are my commands, and you know that I have long sought your return.” He crossed the room and took his mother’s hands. He looked her in the eyes and was able to speak sincerely. “I’m glad you are coming home, Mother. Truly.”

The elder ogress’s expression softened, and he felt a glimmer of affection, affection such as he had not known for decades. He searched for something else to say, but before any words came to him an alarm horn brayed through the halls.

Moments later there came a knock at the door, and Stariz yanked it open to reveal a breathless ogre dressed in the gold and scarlet of the royal guard.

“What is it?” barked the queen.

“Intruders, Your Majesties! Six of them landed on the northern shore of the island!”

“A sailboat! Was it a sailboat that brought them?” demanded the king.

“No, sire. Rather, the watchman said it was as though they rose out of the water, walked on waves at first, then came swimming ashore.”

“Bah,” declared Grimwar, waving his hand. “The watchman is an idiot! Such tales! They must have come by boat!”

“Surely,” Stariz agreed with the king, rather surprising him. “But where are they right now?”

“We… er, one of the wretches slipped away,” the guard stammered. “He was nothing-a gully dwarf it looked like, though his beard was a bit long. He headed west. The others are headed this way, toward the castle.”

“What is the nature of these intruders?” demanded the king. “Did you see an elf among them?”

“One is a human woman, Sire. That is plain. The others we took mostly to be men-though we weren’t close enough to see for certain. There was another one, too, who seemed to be a gully dwarf.”

“Five, and a gully dwarf? The elf is among them-he must be!” gasped Stariz, clapping a hand to her mouth and sagging into a large chair. She looked wide-eyed at Grimwar. “The Messenger is here. He has come at last, and some strange plan is afoot.”

“Find them!” screamed the king. “Find them and kill them all, at once, without mercy!”