The Golden Orb

24

“My lord king, beware!” cried Three-Tusk, pushing Grimwar Bane to the side.

Those were the last words the loyal Grenadier ever spoke. The ogre king stumbled, dropped to one knee, and the next thing he knew the berserk Highlander was pulling his axe away, leaving Three-Tusk lying on the ground fatally bleeding from a slash through his neck.

The human, his voice shrieking weirdly-the familiar shriek the king had heard at the gatehouse of Brackenrock-was clearly not finished. Another ogre stepped into the bearded man’s path, and he, too, was cut down. A third Grenadier swung his sword, slicing a deep gouge in the attacker’s arm. The maniac didn’t even seem to react. Instead, he yelled even louder and spun himself through a circle, slashing his axe like a spinning top, leaving bloody wounds in several burly ogres.

Another human, a blond swordsman of impressive physique, also charged in a short distance behind the berserker. Neither of these intrepid attackers was the elven Messenger, the ogre monarch noted grimly, as he tried to rally his men.

“Fight, my Grenadiers!” he commanded. His veteran warriors formed a wall around the king, pressing shoulder to shoulder to prevent either attacker striking directly at Grimwar Bane, shielding the royal personage with their own flesh.

Both humans stabbed and chopped at the ring of the ogres. One ogre threw a spear, piercing the thigh of the berserker. Even then the man didn’t fall. He turned and lunged at the spearman, almost striking him with his whirling axe. But the wound was grievous, slowing the Highlander’s movements enough that another one of the king’s guards had a chance to close in with a sudden lunge. This time the berserker’s axe found ogre flesh, but at the same time the Grenadier’s sword thrust plunged into the human’s chest. Still howling his battle cry, the stricken warrior stumbled to the side, barely avoiding the next blow.

At the same time the blond-haired Highlander was trying to hack through the ogre ring from the other side. He was a skilled swordsman. His blade struck one Grenadier’s wrist, almost cutting off the hand, then deflected a slashing blow from another of Grimwar’s bodyguards. The force of that parry knocked the man off balance, however, and quickly a third ogre leaped close, swinging his spear like a club. The shaft, as thick around as a man’s wrist, caught the Highlander on the side of his head and he dropped like a felled tree, sprawling motionless on the ground.

Seeing his comrade fall, the berserker’s voice rose to a frenzy. Bleeding from many wounds, hampered by the spear still lodged in his leg, he nevertheless rushed the ogres and, with a single slice, killed the one who had felled his comrade, splitting his forehead with a savage downward chop of his axe.

That attack came at terrible cost, as the Highlander exposed his back for a moment. One ogre stabbed, another threw his spear, and the human fell on his face, pinned to the ground, the spear point emerging from his chest. Still he tried to fight on, pushing with his hands, struggling to roll over, as the rest of Grimwar’s escort brought their weapons down in a gory orgy of murderous vengeance.

Only then did the king step over to the big blond human, who was bleeding from a wide cut over his ear. Grimwar rolled him over, looked at him critically.

“This one is still breathing,” said the monarch. “Tie him up. I will interrogate him if he lives.”

“You created such a weapon? A device that could destroy an entire citadel, a whole community of people?” Kerrick demanded. His face was taut. He spoke tersely, stalking around his father’s chamber, his eyes never leaving that withered, cadaverous, and eerily kindred visage.

“I am sad to see that it is happening to you. I should never have left it for you. Nor would I, if I had understood…” Dimorian’s voice was wistful, rambling, distant as though he heard not a word his son had uttered.

“What are you mumbling about?” snapped Kerrick. “Listen to me. Don’t you understand that you are a pawn of evil?”

Dimorian, who was the Alchemist, sighed, gazing at the metal sphere with its cold, almost obscene beauty. “Evil, yes. You speak, of course, of the golden orb. Yes, I fear that was my handiwork. I had no way, of course, to know it would be used against my own son or his friends.”

“But if you had, that wouldn’t have stopped you, would it?” It was Moreen who spoke now.

“No, because… because I had to have… I needed…”

Moreen gave Kerrick a look at once so fierce and compassionate that he was taken aback.

“Take off your ring,” she said quietly, and in that instant she understood.

He was like his father: seduced by the urge. He moved his right hand over his left, as if he was about to ease the circlet off of his finger. Touching his skin, he toyed with the metal circle, considered removing it.

He couldn’t.

“You had better see to the door,” said Dimorian, gesturing vaguely. The words barely penetrated Kerrick’s consciousness, but Moreen responded. She stepped to the entry and pushed the door shut, turning the latch to lock it. Spotting a heavy beam, the chiefwoman picked it up and dropped it across the portal, securing it in place.

They heard ogres rush onto the landing, roaring in rage. They were outside now, pounding against the door. Kerrick turned back to his father.

“You were their puppet. You did so much for them! Grimwar Bane’s ship, the Hornet-that was your design too, wasn’t it? That’s how the ogres were able to make another galley!”

Dimorian nodded. “There were certain flaws, mainly because of the absence of any hardwood. Her hull was weak. I have an idea how to make the next one stronger.”

Kerrick stared at him accusingly. Dimorian found Moreen with his watery eyes.

“I suppose that ship will never be built, now, will it?”

“We came to stop you,” she replied. “Not from building ships, but from making another golden orb.”

The elder elf offered a smile of immeasurable sadness. “You are too late to stop its creation, as you can see. I fear that this is a weapon even more terrible than the one Grimwar Bane used against your fortress. It is larger, heavier, more powerful in every respect.”

A great boom echoed from the door as the ogres brought massive force to bear. The portal bulged inward, cracking, splinters flying loose. Kerrick turned to look, confused, his mind and heart were spinning wildly.

“My son… please believe me, I never expected to see you again, to see any elf. I am grateful that you are here, and we must talk about everything that has happened to me… and you… over the years. But now you must flee!” declared Dimorian Fallabrine, with a trace of the authority that once captained a mighty warship.

“We aren’t going anywhere!” Moreen retorted. “Not while that orb exists and can be used against my homeland.”

“I assure you,” said Dimorian in a new, more serious tone, “I can address both of your concerns immediately. The orb will never be used against you, nor will my work continue to aid the king of Suderhold.”

The Alchemist suddenly stood straight, his eyes clear, as if years or even decades had fallen away from him. He met Kerrick’s gaze with an expression combining pride and a plea for forgiveness.

“What-what are you saying?” asked the chief-woman. Then she understood. Moreen turned to Kerrick. “Can we trust him… your father?” she asked the younger elf.

“Yes,” said the son softly, studying his father’s resolute expression. “I believe we can.”

The quivering door showed cracks and splinters. The din was powerful, as if a hundred ogres were breaking it down. “Is that the only way out of here?” asked Kerrick.

“There is another way. Here, you must drink this to take advantage of it,” said the Alchemist, lifting up a small bottle and removing the stopper. He handed it to Moreen. “It is a powerful elixir, too powerful for me, but for you, it can have a profound use. It will allow you to escape, to live.”

“What is it?” the chiefwoman asked suspiciously.

“A treasure, in its own right,” replied the Alchemist, allowing himself a wry smile. “Ironically, it is a gift from the Dowager Queen herself.”

Moreen stepped forward, warily took the proffered bottle. The Alchemist went to the window and threw open the heavy shutter. Sunlight spilled into the room, pure and bright and wholesome.

The chiefwoman lifted the neck of the vial to her lips and drank from it.

Instantly her image began to wave, the black of her hair, the tawny buckskin of her shirt fading into a misty gray even as she set the bottle down on the bench. The rays of sunlight passed through her as she grew incorporeal, until finally she grew barely visible, floating in the air, a cohesive but gaseous cloud the color of pale steam.

A heavy blow struck the door, an axe blade plunging through, twisting and ripping as its wielder pulled it back for another strike. Kerrick stepped forward, reached for the bottle but spoke pleadingly to his father.

“Come with us,” the Messenger said. “We can destroy the orb, and without you they’ll never be able to make another one. You can return with us to Brackenrock. Someday I could take you back across the ocean, to Silvanesti…”

His father shook his head, a slight gesture, dashing Kerrick’s hopes. “I have no home there anymore,” he said regretfully. “I turned my back on my people, my birthright, long ago when I made the choice to serve the ogre king in return for release from his dungeon. It was a choice your mother resisted. She died in that dungeon, her pride still intact. For that, I reproach myself above all. But when she was gone, I’m afraid I weakened. The lure of magic, the taste of power… I am ashamed to admit that I lacked the strength to resist. I must do something to atone….”

“Yes,” Kerrick said quietly, feeling that same warm pulse of magic in his own blood, the sensation of power emanating from the golden ring on his finger.

Dimorian gestured to the ring on his son’s hand. “I see my ring on your hand. You must take it off now. I pray that you will recognize its danger and throw it away!”

There was such a stark terror in his father’s voice that this time Kerrick did as he was told and slid the ring off of his finger. Immediately he staggered with the onset of weakness and despair, the familiar sensation of bleak hopelessness, as he held the little band of metal in his hand. Every nerve in his body, every ounce of his desire, urged him, begged him to put the ring back on. He swayed.

Then he surprised himself by reaching forward and dropping the ring it into Dimorian’s trembling, outstretched hand. Quickly Kerrick took the last swallow of the drink, the liquid searing his throat and the warmth spreading through his body as he grew light and immaterial.

Moreen was already drifting away, slipping out through the window, and he turned to follow her, flying free, sweeping outward to the sunlit sky. The two of them swirled into the air beyond Castle Dracoheim as the Alchemist’s door burst, and the hinges broke free.

The Dowager Queen could not believe her eyes-six of her finest ogre guards mangled and bleeding, most of them dead. Blood everywhere, while three of her burliest guards continued to hack and chop at the resistant door.

“An elf did this?” grunted one of her attendants, biting back any further questions as she flashed him a murderous look.

“Break it down!” she cried. “Out of my way!” She raised her iron cudgel and swung a mighty blow.

With her help the splintering barrier finally gave way, cracking down the middle and collapsing in two halves. The first three ogres charged through with vengeful roars, and Queen Hannareit pushed behind them-then they all froze, paralyzed by fear.

“What are you doing?” she gasped, trying to comprehend the scene.

The Alchemist was alone in the room, the window wide open. If the Messenger had been here, he was gone.

Somehow the craven and feeble elf who had been her pet, her slave for all these years, had found the strength to lift the golden orb. He had hoisted it in his two hands, balancing it on the windowsill above the hundred-foot drop to the courtyard below. The elder queen and her ogre guards stood aghast, then began to back away.

“I had a chance to talk to my son,” he said, “I found strength I didn’t even know I possessed.”

“Put that down-carefully,” Hanna said, her voice like an iceberg grating against the hull of a ship. “Put it down, and I will forgive you… for this… for everything. You shall have… everything you want… need.”

“I think that for the first time in a very long time, I have everything I need,” said the Alchemist.

He seemed strangely content-happy, Hanna would have said, if she had time to say anything. Dimorian Fallabrine leaned out the window and let go of the golden orb.

Stariz was red-faced, puffing for breath, as she jogged up to Grimwar Bane. “I saw the fight,” she said. “I hurried as fast as I could. Was it just two men who attacked?”

“Yes,” replied the king with irritation, looking down at his prisoner. The blond Highlander had regained consciousness and now sat on the ground at Grimwar’s feet, hair matted with drying blood, hands bound behind his back. Several watchful Grenadiers stood nearby with weapons poised, ready to abort any aggressive move.

“Why did you and your comrade attack us?” demanded the ogre king. “What could you have hoped to gain?”

“A measure of vengeance for a very good friend,” the man retorted, his jaw set and his eyes blazing with pride. “That’s her father’s cape that you wear over your shoulders. I wished to get it back for her.”

“What nonsense is this?” Grimwar unconsciously reached a hand to his shoulder, touched the bear pelt, that black color unique among all the bears of the Ice-reach. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“Just a man from the Highlands,” said the prisoner with a dismissive shrug.

“Don’t be a fool!” Stariz snapped to Grimwar, her disrespect toward their king provoking growls and startled glances from the ogres gathered around the royal couple. Grimwar himself flushed with fury, but his wife continued without breath. “You dolt, they were trying to keep you from getting back to the castle! Away from your duty, your station! Look up there! Look! The elf is probably striking now, even as we stand here uselessly!”

Surprised, the king looked up the valley, to the lofty citadel five or six miles away. It stood black, tall, and impervious on its rocky height, yet it looked strangely vulnerable against the pale blue sky. He had a sick feeling in his gut, a fear that his wife, as usual, was right.

The queen was not finished with her rebuke. “I tell you, we should be there, right now-”

Everything vanished. Grimwar’s vision went blank as it was seared by a flash of brilliant light. He felt heat against his face, as if a furnace door had burst open just a few feet away. He gaped, trying to see, but even though he blinked and rubbed his eyes he could not restore his vision.

Then came the second blast, a wave of force that knocked the wind from his lungs, sent all the ogres smashing to the ground, rolling like tenpins. He tried to breathe but felt only that awful, crushing pressure. After interminable seconds of this punishment the third wave, the sound, reached them, a horrifying blast pounding their ears with the same brutal force that had impacted their bodies.

Grimwar was vaguely aware of screaming, groaning ogres to all sides. He himself was roaring and screaming. Finally, after long minutes or hours, the burning, the noise, the fiery whiteness began to fade. Though he saw only a bright wash of whiteness in the middle of his field of vision, he began to make out images around the edges. There was smoke, a billowing cloud of dust besmirching the once clean sky… but that was not the worst of it, not at all.

As he looked up, toward the knoll at the head of the valley, his ultimate fear, his impossible nightmare, was confirmed.

Castle Dracoheim was gone.

Kerrick felt himself blown toward the sea, the force of the blast propelling his gaseous form through the air like a piece of feather-light rubbish. He rode the blast, feeling no pain, just a numb sense of horror. Moreen was lost in the gale, but he believed that she was nearby, borne along like him by the force of the magic weapon his father had created.

As the tumult waned, he finally discerned the cloudy image of the chiefwoman drifting nearby. He floated over to her and reached out, tendrils of vaporous limbs embracing, linking themselves together. Gradually they drifted downward, angling themselves toward the shadowed waters of the cove where the Whalefish had landed them.

Moreen alighted on the shore of black sand, and she became a woman again, looking dazed and battered, but a human female of flesh and blood, muscle and beauty. In another instant Kerrick was there beside her, whole again, feeling the magic drain from him to leave only a weakness and emptiness, a gnawing hunger he would never satisfy.

But both of them were again whole, corporeal beings. They embraced, relishing the miracle of their lives.

Never had Kerrick found such comfort in the touch of another person. Moreen cried, as he pressed her head against his shoulder, stroked her hair, desperately tried to soothe her.

Just off shore, the top of the submersible’s hull rose from the placid waters with a gentle splash. Whalefish bobbed in the shallows, rolling gently from side to side.

“Do you see Strongwind or Randall?” asked the elf, looking worriedly around.

Moreen’s expression was stricken. “When-when we were floating… up there,” she said, her voice choking with grief. “I think I saw Randall, his body… horribly slashed. It was down on the ground, near a whole band of ogres. I didn’t see Strongwind, but…”

“But they would have stayed together,” the elf said, feeling a weary sadness permeate him. He wanted to collapse, to lie down and sleep for many days. “Both of them lost. It doesn’t seem possible.”

The hatch atop the steel hull popped open, and Captain Pneumo waved. “I’ve got gold in the boilers and steam in the pipes,” he called. “There’s some kind of madness going on around here. C’mon, let’s go!”

“None of this seems possible,” Moreen said quietly. “Even you-you found your father, and lost him again.”

“Yes,” Kerrick said, turning, wading into the water. He stopped to look back at the island, barren and bleak as ever, now with a huge smoke column billowing upward, marking the pyre of an elf, a weapon, and a reign of terror.

He choked on the words, as he drew a breath. “Now, at least, I know he died a hero.”