Authors: Robert P. Hansen
10
Giorge rode at a gallop until dusk, and then gradually
slowed until it became too dark to ride at all. Then he dismounted and led the
horse off the road to rest until moonrise. He ate, and the horse grazed. An
hour later, he resumed his ride, giving the horse its head while he dozed in
the saddle. Shortly before moonset, he rode into Lieutenant Jarhad’s abandoned
campsite. He waited there until false dawn, when there was enough light to see
by, before searching it. He found what he expected: nothing of interest. Then
he mounted the horse and nudged it to a fast walk. When false dawn gave birth
to daybreak, they galloped. Near midday, the Swiftness spell wore off, and he
slowed to a quick walk. By the time the sun dropped behind the mountains, there
was a hint of smoke in the air, and when night fell, there was an orange tint
to the mountains behind him.
That night and into the next day, he rode as far and as fast
as he dared, resting only when needed. When he reached the crossroads he slowed
down. Should he go south? Or should he continue on and catch up with Lieutenant
Jarhad’s patrol? He couldn’t be more than a day or so behind them. He stopped
where the roads met and dismounted to study their tracks. They confirmed his
suspicion: the patrol had passed the crossroads no more than a day earlier, and
they had been riding as hard as he had been. But there were other tracks, too:
footprints heading north. A small group with broad feet no longer than his own.
The footprints had crossed over the patrol’s trail.
Where are the dwarves
going?
He wondered as he looked south.
And how many more are there? It’s
about the right number for a scouting party…
He bent down and listened to the old stone roadbed. There
was a soft rumbling, as if a large number of men were on the move. An army? He
stood up and looked south. Even in daylight there was a faint suggestion of
orange haze on the southern horizon. Were the volcanoes down there already
erupting? He looked at the south road. If they were, the dwarves would know it
before he would. The eruptions would force them up out of their holes long
before the lava burbled up through the ground. If that was what it was, there
could be hundreds, even thousands of dwarves coming up that road. What would
they do if they saw him? He wouldn’t be able to avoid an army of that size, and
if they started asking questions….
He sighed. The Western Kingdoms were no longer an option. He
didn’t mind overmuch; it had never been an appealing one to begin with. He
frowned. If he tarried too long at the crossroads, the dwarves might catch up
with him, and there was no telling what they would do if they did.
He mounted his horse and spurred it to an almost reckless
pace. He had already ridden the horse for too long, but there was no time for a
proper rest. If he was going to catch up with Lieutenant Jarhad, he would have
to do it before the dwarves reached him—or them. The dwarves
might
let a
sizeable, well-armed party pass unhindered.
11
“What do you mean I can’t end my Banner?” Hobart demanded of
the young scribe sitting at the access point of Hellsbreath’s southern lift
area. “I can end my Banner whenever I want, and I want to end it now.”
The scribe squinted at his book and brought it closer to the
lantern. He shook his head, and his long blonde braid swished across the back
of his brown robe like a horse’s tail swatting at flies. “No,” he said. “Your Banner
has been called into service by the King. You cannot disband your Banner until
that service has been completed.”
Hobart armor clinked as he crossed his arms and glared at
the young man. “What are we to do?” he demanded.
The young scribe shrugged. “I do not know,” he admitted,
tilting the book toward the lantern so he could read it again. “The message
says that you are to report to Commander Garret for deployment immediately upon
your arrival.” He frowned and turned to the guardsman at his side. “You should
bring the lift down, shouldn’t you?” he asked. “It sounds important enough,
don’t you think?”
The guardsman looked as if he didn’t want to have the
responsibility of making the decision, and then nodded. “If it says immediately…”
The scribe looked down and his lips moved as his fingertips
ran across the page until they fell upon a funny squiggle that Hobart couldn’t
understand. “Immediately,” the scribe repeated with a definitive nod. He smiled
in satisfaction and turned back to the guardsman. “Bring down the lift.”
The guardsman nodded and hurried up to the wall to grab a
couple of lit torches. As he rushed out to the signal point, the scribe turned
back to Hobart and said, “There you go! Prompt service. The fee—”
“Look,” Hobart interrupted, letting his frustration flow
easily over his tongue. “My Banner is splintered right now. Giorge is dead.” He
leaned forward and tapped the Banner Registry. “Mark that down in your book.”
He loomed over the scribe until the quill began to scratch the paper, and then
leaned back again. “He was killed by a frost elemental summoned by a curse that
plagued his family for a thousand years. That ought to read well, shouldn’t
it?” He paused as if he expected a reply, and waited until the scribe had
muttered, “shouldn’t it” before continuing. “Ortis is leaving the Banner, so
strike him off the roster, too. As for Angus,” he shook his head, “I have no
idea where he is or what happened to him.”
“Oh,” the young scribe looked up from his scribbling and smiled
at him. “I can tell you where he is. He’s in Hellsbreath. He arrived nearly two
weeks ago. If it is him, that is. There is some question about his identity,
since he was in Tyrag only a few days before arriving here and there was no
indication that he had left that city. Perhaps that is why Commander Garret
wishes to see you? To find out if this Angus is the one you know? He’s been
forbidden to leave, after all, and if I were Commander Garret, I would want to
do that, especially since he looks different from what he was described when he
was last here. Of course, considering old Filbert’s eyesight….” He shook his
head and bent down to finish updating the record.
Three days!
Hobart scowled at the top of the scribe’s
head because he couldn’t scowl at Angus.
If he can travel that far that fast
why didn’t he do it when we were trying to free Giorge from that curse?
The lift was nearly to the ground when the scribe looked
back up and added, “There must have been a lapse in reporting the incident. It
said that he was near death when he arrived at Tyrag. See?” he turned the book
toward Hobart and pointed at a passage. “Angus arrived at Tyrag with a mangled
shoulder and rotted foot. He collapsed shortly thereafter, and was taken to the
healer Iscara.” He turned the book back to himself and added, “There was no
hint of injury when he arrived here.” The lift settled onto the ground, and a
few travelers debarked. “I don’t suppose you can explain what happened to him?”
the scribe asked. “For the records? He apparently didn’t have time to do it
himself before he collapsed in Tyrag—and Filbert neglected to ask him about
it.”
Hobart turned toward the lift and paused.
So, Angus
didn’t report in properly, then? Well….
“All right,” he said, “put this in
your report.” He waited until the scribe had dipped his quill in the ink and
then continued. “We had just crossed the Haunted Plateau—” he smiled as the
scribe paused and looked up at him with wide eyes. “Yes, we had just crossed
the Haunted Plateau when we were attacked by the frost elemental that killed
Giorge.”
“Oh!” the scribe said, “the frost elemental hurt him, too.”
“No,” Hobart grumbled. “Sardach did that. He’s a foul
creature, that Sardach. Our weapons were useless against him, and he—” Hobart
paused and shook his head. He wasn’t telling the story to entertain his
drinking companions; he was giving a report to the king. He needed to be
succinct, direct. “We were on the platform heading down the cliff, and Angus
was split in half by Sardach. Sardach is a smoke elemental. He took half of
Angus with him as he flew away and dropped the other half of Angus as he went.
The second half fell hundreds of feet and struck the mountainside. I have no
idea how he survived that fall, but he did. We left him in a cave to die
because he asked us to do it. He said he had a plan to get to Tyrag, but we
didn’t believe him.” He shrugged. “We were wrong. His plan must have worked.”
He paused again and finished, “You’ll have to ask him for the details.”
The young scribe finished writing, read aloud what he had
written, and then smiled. “That may explain how he got from Tyrag to
Hellsbreath so quickly. There are two halves of him!”
Hobart frowned. He hadn’t told the scribe what those two
halves were, and if both of them claimed to be Angus…
The scribe looked up and a frown settled on his face. “But
if he were only half a man, he’d only have one arm and one leg, wouldn’t he?”
Hobart shook his head, as though the question puzzled him.
“No, they both had arms and legs, and they looked different from each other.”
“Ahhhh,” the young scribe said, smiling again. “So it wasn’t
Filbert’s eyesight at all! I’ll have to make a note of that. If you could tell
me what each half looks like….”
Hobart shook his head. “I cannot,” he admitted. “The …
separation was incomplete when Sardach took him away. I only saw the one half.”
He looked at the waiting lift and asked, “Shouldn’t I be going, now?”
“In time,” the scribe said. The guardsman at his side rolled
his eyes at Hobart as the scribe continued. “Tell me what you can about the
half you did see, so I can compare it with the records.”
“Taller and thinner than he was when I first met him. He had
dark blue eyes instead of silver. His hair was black, and the broken nose went
away. His right shoulder was mush, and his left foot had nearly rotted off.
There was no hint of the scar on his neck.”
The scribe scribbled down the nonsense, studied it for a
moment, and then muttered, “Perhaps both of them have the same appearance?”
“Look,” Hobart said. “I am supposed to report to Commander
Garret, aren’t I?”
“Yes, yes,” the young scribe muttered. Then he looked up and
asked, “Is there anything to put down for Hogbart?”
“Hobart!” Hobart snapped. “My name is Hobart.”
“Hobart?” The scribe repeated, frowning down at the name.
“The records indicate that it’s Hogbart. H-O-G-B-A-R-T.”
Hobart nodded. “Hobart. Why can’t you scribes say it right?”
“But there’s a G in it,” the scribe complained. “All the
Hobart’s I’ve ever met spelled it H-O-B-A-R-T. Do you know your name’s
etymology?”
Hobart scowled. “Its what?”
“Where the original spelling came from?”
Hobart shrugged. “Baldor spelled it for me when I started my
Banner.”
“Before that?” the scribe persisted. “What language—”
“The lift is waiting,” the guardsman interrupted. “We should
be going.”
The scribe looked pained, sighed, and waved them on.
Hobart took a few steps, then stopped and turned back. “Mark
this down in your book, scribe. This will be the final mission of The Banner of
the Wounded Hand. Once it is finished, we will be officially disbanded.” He
hesitated only long enough to see the young scribe pick up his quill and dip it
into the ink.
The guardsman ushered Hobart, Ortis, and their horses toward
the lift, but Hobart stopped when the scribe asked Dagremon what her business
was in Hellsbreath. “She is with us, Scribe,” Hobart said. “I will vouch for
her.”
The scribe looked as if he wanted to ask her a litany of
questions, then thought better of it and waved her through. The other
passengers—there were only two—were already on the lift as they boarded it.
“My apologies, Hobart,” the guardsman said in a hushed tone.
“Filbert thought it would be good for Jebble to run the lift on his own for a
few days. He’s still learning.”
Hobart clapped him on his shoulder and laughed. “It’s all right,
Tabor,” he said. “I was caught off guard by the summons to service. I trust you
will convey my apologies for being brusque?”
“No need, Hobart,” the guardsman said with a wink. “He
deserved it.” He turned to latch the door and added, “We’ll be rising
momentarily.” Then he left them alone in the expansive interior of the lift.
Hobart turned to Ortis. “I am sorry, my friend. I will not
hold you here. Whatever burden King Tyr has in mind for the Banner, it is of no
concern of yours. You are free to go where you will.”
“I will go with you,” Ortis said, “if you wish it.”
Hobart shook his head. “No,” he said. “You need to go find
your people.”
“It can wait,” Ortis said, “if you need my help.”
Hobart clenched his jaws and said nothing for a few seconds.
“There is one thing you can do for me, Ortis. While I report to Commander
Garret, find Angus and tell him we’re here. He should be at the Wizards’
School. We can all meet at Hedreth’s in the morning to discuss whatever the
future holds for us.”
Ortis nodded. “The king doesn’t press Banners into service
lightly, Hobart,” he told him. “I’m sure you will need as much help on this
mission as you can find.”
Hobart frowned and said nothing. He was too angry about
being called into service on the very day that he had planned to disband the Banner.
Of all the rotten luck! He hadn’t heard of a Banner being called into service
in the whole time that he had had one, and now the king had called
his
Banner
into service.
His.
Ortis was right: it had to be something very
important, and that meant it would be something very dangerous. But there was
no sense in speculating about what it was; he would find out soon enough. If
Commander Garret wasn’t too upset about being woken up.
12
Giorge’s horse was exhausted by the time he finally stopped
at the little pond where the dwarves grew some of the mushrooms that caused The
Tween Effect. It was dark, and he barely took the time to brush the horse down
with handfuls of pine needles. He was close to the patrol—they were no more
than a few hours ahead of him—but his horse couldn’t take much more stress.
Neither could he. Besides, the pond was a good place to rest, wasn’t it? After
drinking deeply, he led the horse across the bridge and past the little mud
domes where the dwarves had hidden their cache of axes. He barely glanced at
their dark silhouettes as he passed; he was too tired to worry about them. When
he reached the trees on the other side of them, he draped the horse’s reins
over a branch and went to sit against the bole of the tree. He was exhausted. A
few hours sleep wouldn’t put him much further behind Lieutenant Jarhad’s patrol
than he already was. He closed his eyes….
Muffled thumping. Soft whinny. More thumping. Louder whinny.
Giorge reluctantly stirred, wondering what was making the racket. Then he heard
a thump followed by what sounded like leaves of a book popping free from their
bindings. Voices. Another nervous whinny. The words were distant, but he
recognized a few of them.
Dwarves!
he thought as he crawled quietly out from
under the pine tree’s halo of branches. The horse nickered softly and moved
toward him, tugging the loose rein free from the branch. It was still dark, but
when he turned to the west, his eyes widened. The mountain shielding the Angst
temple’s valley was on fire, and the flames were already reaching out for the
plateau—
More thumping as the dwarves broke through the mud domes.
More voices emerged from them.
Giorge lifted the reins of his horse and led him to the deer
trail they had followed on their first time through. He kept walking until he
found the road again, and then mounted the horse and rode at an easy walk. He
wasn’t too worried about the dwarves behind him—they were preoccupied, weren’t
they? Besides, the horse could outrun them if it became necessary. No, he rode
slowly because it was still too dark to ride more quickly, and because he and
the horse were still exhausted. He had only gone a short distance when he
slumped forward in the saddle. How long he rode in a stupor, he didn’t know,
but when he finally roused himself, the false dawn was around them. The horse,
thankfully, had kept to the road. Then he realized what had woken him: the
horse had quickened to a fast walk, and he had almost fallen out of the saddle.
Then he heard the soft whinny of another horse and realized he was riding into
the patrol’s camp.
He rode quietly up to the sentry and stopped. What was his
name? Timody? Thaddius? He nodded to him. “How long before you break camp?” he
asked, his voice sluggish.
The sentry looked up at the sky and shrugged. “Daybreak.”
Giorge looked up at the gray sky and shook his head. There
was enough light to see by, and they needed to get off the plateau quickly.
“Rouse the camp,” he said. “We need to ride.”
“Why?” the sentry asked. “We’re far enough away from that
mountain, aren’t we?”
Giorge shook his head. “Not according to the dwarves.”
“Dwarves?” the sentry repeated.
Giorge nodded. “They’re heading north.”
The sentry shrugged. “Let them,” he said.
Giorge sighed. “Volcanoes start underground,” he said as he
rode past.
The sentry frowned and shrugged. “Tell the Lieutenant, then.
He’s in his tent.”
Giorge shook his head to help clear it as he rode up to the
Lieutenant’s tent. He dismounted and walked up to the tent flap. He peeled it
open and shouted into the darkness within, “Lieutenant!”
There was a rustle of cloth and the sound of steel sliding
against steel. A few seconds passed, and then Lieutenant Jarhad snapped, “What
is it?”
Giorge stayed at the tent flap and said, “Get up,
Lieutenant! We have to get off this plateau before the dwarves catch us.”
“Dwarves?” Lieutenant Jarhad snorted. “What does it matter
if they catch us?” He paused and then asked, “Giorge?”
“Yes,” Giorge said. “Are you going to break camp? Or are you
going to let yourself get swallowed up by lava?”
Lieutenant Jarhad stood up in the shadows and moved toward
him. “That volcano is miles away from here. We have more than enough time to
get back.”
Giorge sighed. “Lieutenant,” he said. “Do you remember those
little mud domes I told you about when we passed by them?”
“Of course,” he snapped. “We left them be, just like you
told us to do.”
“Well, there are dwarves spewing out from them.
Hundreds
of dwarves,” he added, wondering if it were true. A few dozen might not be
enough to convince Lieutenant Jarhad to leave, but hundreds might. “What do you
think they are fleeing from?” he asked.
“Fleeing?” Lieutenant Jarhad repeated. “Why would they be
fleeing from anything?”
Giorge rolled his eyes. “Lieutenant,” he said in his calmest
voice. “Volcanoes start
under
the mountains.”
Lieutenant Jarhad stepped forward, and Giorge backed away
from the tent flap. When he stepped outside, the Lieutenant looked around and
asked, “Where’s Embril?”
“She’s following Darby north through the mountains,” he
lied. “I came ahead to warn you that we need to get off the plateau before it
boils over.”
Lieutenant Jarhad squinted at him, and then nodded. “All
right,” he agreed. “We’ll go. But you’re going to ride with me and tell me what
happened.”
Giorge shook his head. “Not today,” he said, trying to put
off the inevitable. “I’ve been riding hard for days, and my horse needs a
breather. So do I. I’ll ride with one of your men so I can get some sleep. We
can talk when we stop for the night.”
Lieutenant Jarhad frowned and demanded, “How is Embril
following him without a horse?”
Giorge laughed. “She
is
a horse,” he told him. He had
heard the stories of her transformation, and he had hoped it would be a
convincing ruse. “You should see how red her tail is!”
The Lieutenant softened a bit and nodded. “I have,” he
admitted. “Very well, we’ll talk this evening.” Then he effectively dismissed
him from his thoughts and shouted at the sentry. “Teddy! Rouse the camp! We
leave in thirty minutes.”
Teddy nodded and started running toward the main tent.
Giorge said, “Here,” and gave Lieutenant Jarhad the reins of
his horse. “Wake me when we’re ready to leave.” He stepped into Lieutenant
Jarhad’s tent and flopped down on his cot. In moments, he was fast asleep.