The Blackfire Annals: Chasing Ghosts

Huntress Camp

Telara’s Command Tent

Sunrise, Next Day

“I cannot believe what I am hearing,” Telara exclaimed after Edessa finished recounting her travels. Her daughter sat across from her on one of the hide chairs; Telara remained behind her improvised table, poring over her map even as Edessa spoke. All around them, Edessa could hear the bustle of the early morning meal, but neither of them quite felt like leaving just yet. The younger Huntress shifted uncomfortably as she talked; after all, her mother had an otherworldly quality about her that perturbed many people. “You corroborate what he says, supporting him, even?” Such a thing, in her mind, was not even remotely possible. Her daughter was much wiser than this. Edessa’s face, formerly uncertain, was now such that even Issavea might have gotten chills.

“He never lied to you, Mother,” Edessa said, her voice low and even, a decided opposition to the anger in her eyes. “He came to his enemy, willing to submit his weapons in the face of death. Even after you tried to kill him, he still refused to raise a hand against you. Again, I would have been more disposed to lay you out on the floor.” Telara’s eyes narrowed, but she betrayed no other sign of anger.

“Have a care how you choose to speak to me,” she cautioned. “You may have survived on your own, but you are still my daughter. You have yet to take a part in the rites, and as such you must submit to my authority.”

“Submission does not equate to blind obedience,” Edessa countered her mother. “I honored our people’s code in everything I did, and yet you question my judgment in his integrity? Where and when, exactly, have I given you reason to do such a thing?”

“You gave me reason to doubt your judgment when you threw your lot in with him,” Telara replied, her controlled veneer dropping in an explosion of rage. “He is just like Arden. Oh, you would not remember him. But this one…I can see much of his great-grandfather in him. Cold, proud, assured of his own strength, and unwilling to seek the help of others when he needs it.”

Edessa laughed quietly. “You may be one of the best Huntresses to ever serve, Mother, but you know very little of him if you believe such a thing. Then again, you always have poorly judged others’ character. Perhaps he is assured of his own strength. But then, he has had to rely on it for so long he sees no other way to solve problems. He is not proud of what he is; he hid his identity from us for a long time, and when he told us, he was reluctant to do even that. He knows that he is not the greatest there is, but he strives every hour to be better than he is now.” Edessa got to her feet from the rough-hewn chair and began pacing, her fingers tracing the way along the double-scabbarded knives at her hip. Having her hunting knives back felt good and right; they, of all her companions, had been one of the most dearly missed.

“Do you want to know why I followed him?” Edessa asked, drawing one of them and setting her sharpening steel to its blade. “I followed because I could learn something. And I did. I learned that you can let go of the things your family holds dear. Their fights do not have to be yours, and neither do their prejudices and natural inclinations. I learned that you can let go of your heritage; and that is what we both did in the wild. You want to know why I trusted him? Because he was willing to trust me first. He did the same with you, and he learned that trust ill-founded.”

“Is it?” Telara challenged. How dare her daughter side with her clear and present enemy over her own kin! “Look at it from my perspective. Remember his cousin?” Edessa nodded slowly.

“I do,” Edessa murmured. “I remember a scared but stubborn dwarf who knew not how to say, ‘I surrender.’ But ask yourself this, Mother: was he that way before, or did you make him so? And, once you know that answer, ask whether or not you want to make the same mistake with Carsten.” She shook her head. “Why did I even start this? I know it never helps to say these things…” She let the conversation hang there for several moments before she walked out of the tent, her eyes filling with tears. She had not wanted to fight with her mother; then again, she never did. Still, Edessa could not shake the feeling that the time had come for her to do something else. Maybe, she thought, with a shred of fear, to be something else.

Haven

Eastern flank of the village

Carsten stood at the edge of the crater, not quite sure what to do. A phoenix, even weakened, could easily scorch the flesh off a man’s bones with only the slightest effort. And, though his might not be the prettiest skin one could lay eyes on, he was rather partial to it. Arcaena joined him at the crater-side, her breath momentarily stolen by the sight before her.

“Is that a…” she began, not quite willing to finish the sentence.

“Great phoenix,” Carsten supplied. “And yes, I think so.” The animal looked up, cocking its head at that odd angle again.

Great is a statement of size, not appearance, you clod, Carsten swore he could hear it say. I feel anything but great right now. If you would not mind, I could use a little help.

“Did he just…try to communicate that it wants our help?” Carsten remained unsure.

“Maybe,” he said, thinking of exactly how to verbalize what he was feeling. “But how do we know he means what he says? Sorry, looks?”

The animal assumed an almost huffy posture. I am a great phoenix, dwarf. I am deeply hurt and traumatized that you would suspect such a thing of me. Our word is inviolate.

“We cannot merely leave him here,” Arcaena said. “Look, see that wound? It will kill him for certain.”

“Can you heal it?” Carsten asked.

Let us hope so, the phoenix seemed to say. Dying in a crater is quite the ignominious fate. And one unbefitting of me, to say the least.

“Maybe,” Arcaena said, sliding down the crater’s wall and moving rather quickly to the animal’s side. “But he has lost a lot of blood.” She put her hand on the massive gash and began to murmur. The flaps of the wound began to glow with the same verdant light that her spells generally cast, and they slowly began moving toward one another. The animal gave a high-pitched whining sound, but then relaxed. Soon, all that was left of the slice wound was a long, green glowing line. Arcaena got to her feet and exhaled quite volubly. This particular healing had required a substantial energy investment, and she felt spent, to say the least.

“Well,” she said, “that wound will be vulnerable for about a week, but other than that, he should be fixed up.” The bird shook its feathered head, trying briefly to rise, only to collapse to the ground.

“What should we do with it?” Carsten asked. “We can’t just leave it here, can we? It’ll get eaten by scavengers for sure.” Arcaena nodded agreement.

“True. What if…” She assumed a thoughtful posture, stroking her chin. “Would you be willing to run back to the village and fetch Deyann? He might know what to do.”

“He probably won’t,” Carsten replied. “But why not try?” And with that, he took off running.

“I have no idea what to do,” Deyann said, staring down at the phoenix. Gorme and Thalserr were beside him; after all, great phoenix sightings made for quite the story, and the town council had agreed that this was a matter they should address together. Other than that, they had brought with them several strong dwarves, men, and dark elves, all of whom had agreed to come. The dark elf sat on a stone at the edge of the crater, stroking his chin.

“Perhaps we could take him to the village,” Thalserr suggested. “We may be able to aid his recovery.” Gorme shook his head.

“Can we?’ He challenged. “The phoenix won’t be easy to lift, even if it decides not to set itself on fire. Is it wise to risk that?”

“Perhaps not,” Deyann conceded. “Even so, can you really say you do not wish to help it?” Gorme remained impassive.

“Wishing cannot take away the danger,” he answered. “Yes, I wish we could help it, but can we really? This would put us in danger, like it or not. Still…” the dwarf sighed. “All right, we’ll take it.”

“One problem,” Thalserr said. “Transport. We cannot possibly support it on every point it needs it.”

“Then we make a stretcher,” one of the men said. “Simple, right?”

“Stretchers are not so simple to fashion,” Deyann said. “It could take several hours.”

“Best we get started, then,” Thalserr said simply.

The work took a while and several trees; fortunately, Gorme never went anywhere without his mortising axe, and Carsten had several knives that could easily be used to more finely cut the poles. The paper-like bark of birch trees, when properly stretched, provided a suitable material for the middle part. They began shortly after dawn and finished three hours before noon; not the most efficient stretcher-building exercise, perhaps, but more than effective. With some creative shifting, a little bit of ingenuity, and a lot of muscle, the group managed to get the injured bird onto the stretcher. One of the men grunted under the load.

“I suppose great is a measure of weight as well,” he moaned. The phoenix turned to look at Carsten, an almost exasperated look on its face.

In all seriousness, am I truly so large? Among my kind, I am considered a runt.

Runts aren’t that bad, Carsten thought. Ask anyone.

Are you one, too? The phoenix’s eyes seemed to ask. Carsten flushed, wondering if the animal could really sense what he was thinking.

Yes, he conceded. As though it matters.

It does. At least neither of us is alone anymore. The dwarf shook his head in disbelief.

Why and how are we talking? He wondered.

Neither is really important. But we are communicating. Of that you can be sure. Carsten looked down at the ground.

Am I losing my mind? He mused thoughtfully. It seems as though I might be.

You cannot lose something of which you are not possessed, the phoenix said, giving a low screech as the stretcher lifted and jostled its minor wounds.

Fair enough, Carsten replied. But still, this is unusual, to say the least.

We’re unusual people, his companion replied.

The redheaded dwarf smiled despite himself at that. I can believe that, he thought.

The village itself was a different matter than the outskirts. True, they bumped and stumbled along painfully outside, but Haven’s muddy streets and narrow alleyways presented a new plethora of challenges for the stretcher’s bearers. Still, they plodded on without hesitation. More than once, someone lost his footing, and all the other bearers inhaled collectively, as though expecting disaster. Such anticipated horrors never came, and they finally managed to get the phoenix into a large shed on the west side of town. Once owned by a somewhat wealthy trader, the building was abandoned after his entire enterprise had collapsed a year back. He still lived in Haven and now rented out the structure as a general storage space. For them, however, he had made an exception.

“Certainly,” he had answered when Deyann had asked. “For you, half-price. Maybe a quarter. No promises on that last one, but we’ll see. Let me know how he does.” The dark elf had agreed to that and taken a key from the man, which he used to unlock the shed door. The floor inside was covered in hay; not the most comfortable material, but better than packed earth. They laid the phoenix down and filed out one by one, leaving Carsten, Deyann, and Arcaena inside. The female healer knelt beside the animal, examining its other wounds with interest.

“It looks as though it was attacked,” she murmured. “But by what, I cannot tell.”

“A dragon, perhaps?” Carsten suggested.

“Perhaps,” the dark elf answered. Deyann looked around momentarily, his eyes scanning the shed. Everything looks in order, he mused. Turning to the other two, he saw a strange look in their eyes, and then he suddenly felt uncomfortable.

“I…” he began, choosing his words carefully. “I am needed elsewhere. The market will open shortly, and that means disputes, which in turn means that people will seek the elders’ council. I should go.” Arcaena nodded.

“If your duty calls, then go,” she said. “We should be all right.” The other elf slipped out the door, leaving Carsten and Arcaena alone. The young healer ran her fingers through the feathers, healing wounds as she found them. After she finished, the bird gave a contented moan, its eyes slowly sliding shut. Soon, it was breathing so deeply that they both knew it had to be asleep. She sat there for a long time, musing on what she had seen. Then, she got to her feet.

“Well,” she said, “that will keep it from dying. Those healings, though, may not have repaired all the damage. Just in case, you may wish to keep it down for two weeks or so?” Carsten could tell, by her tone, that she meant far more than that it was his responsibility to care for it now.

“But you’re the healer,” he said, feeling dread rising in his chest. “Shouldn’t you see this through?” She shook her head.

“I cannot,” she answered. “I must return home eventually, and now seems like the proper time.” Carsten felt stunned; he had known that Arcaena would go, and that was fine as an abstraction. However, for her to actually say it and declare that she intended to do so was by far a different matter. He had no desire to see her go, now least of all.

“But the bird?” He asked. “Aren’t you going to oversee his…her…its recovery?” Arcaena sighed.

“That is what I would like to do,” she replied. “But I cannot. My father probably believes me dead, and I would like to show him otherwise. They are my family, and my first responsibility is to them.” He smiled despite himself; even though he would have liked her to stay, he knew that her devotion to her family would win out in the end.

“When, exactly, do you intend to leave?” He asked. The dark elf shrugged her shoulders.

“I don’t know,” she mused, looking at the bird and rocking back and forth on her feet pensively. “Sometime in the next three days or so. I thought it might be beneficial to leave a bit of time for goodbyes.” Arcaena looked down, wondering what she ought to say next. “I…I was wondering,” she began.

“Yes?” Carsten asked. “You were wondering what?”

“I was curious,” she said, determined to continue, even though this was something she did not know quite how to ask. “How serious are you about this?”

“About what?” He asked. Suddenly, understanding dawned on him. “How…Arcaena, you do understand that, to my people, even saying the words ‘I love you’ are tantamount to a proposition of marriage, right? When I said that I loved you, I meant every word. If you’re asking if I mean for us to get married...” he met her eyes steadily. “That is what I want. Whether or not it is possible might be a different story, but I mean for it, yes.” The dark elf lowered her head. In truth, to hear this both comforted and grieved her. She had wanted to hear him verbalize what she knew he felt; however, knowing made leaving much more difficult, to say the least.

“I merely wanted to hear you say it,” she told him. “It does me good to know.”

“How can that be good?” Carsten asked. “Here we are, on the verge of your departure, and you want me to tell you this just now? Why?”

“I needed to know that you meant what you said,” Arcaena explained. “Some people are very good at acting like they mean what they say. You, in my experience, are the worst liar I have ever had the good fortune to encounter. It is good because it tells me that you would be willing to put the right thing for one of us to do ahead of what we might want.”

“You’re essentially saying that you wanted to hear me say that I could wait,” Carsten reasoned. She nodded.

“Yes,” she told him. “The measure of a man is not what he can do, but what he chooses not to and why.” Carsten bit his lip.

“So you really have to go?” He asked.

“I do.” She reached up and fingered the necklace she wore. “Though I may be able to dull the pain of parting…” Arcaena took the necklace off and handed it to him. “Take this.”

“A necklace?” He asked. “I am humbled that you would give this to me, but how does this…”

“It happens to be fire-glass,” she explained. “I put a visionary spell on it to make sure I could communicate with my family in the event of our parting. However, I brought the ring that functions with it with me, so it would never have worked even if I had cared to try. Now I think I may have found a use for it.” Carsten bowed his head in thanks.

“I don’t think I can say the words enough, but thank you. This can’t be easy to give away.”

Arcaena shrugged. “Perhaps not. But leaving is harder than merely sacrificing a piece of jewelry. Albeit an enchanted one,” she added, with a smile. She walked to the door and put her hand on it. Then, she turned around. “One thing before I go, though…” She stepped close to Carsten and kissed him. It took a long while; even after she stopped, the two of them remained in each other’s arms. “Promise me that I can see you again,” she whispered. “Promise me that you will come for me.”

Carsten blinked, feeling a strange stinging sensation behind his eyes. With a jolt, he realized that he was crying; however, he was quite far past caring. “I promise,” he whispered. “We’ll see each other again.” He felt her begin to pull away and relaxed his grip. She was about to step through the door when Deyann entered the building again. Arcaena stepped back after she saw him; the expression on his face quite clearly conveyed that something was wrong.

“What is it?” She asked. “What happened?”

“Are you familiar with the air courier system?” He asked.

“Yes,” she acknowledged slowly. “Why?”

“Your father sent couriers here,” he explained. Then, he turned to Carsten. “Aside from wanting Arcaena back, Oriem has sent other news. More disconcerting news. Have you heard of a village named Vadhyl?” Carsten nodded.

“That’s the Shatterhands’ home se…” Suddenly, he realized what he was saying, and what Oriem was about to say. “No, that’s not possible. Tell me it isn’t true?”

“What?” Arcaena pressed. “What isn’t true?”

“The village was beset by raiders a week ago,” Deyann explained. “A few dwarves survived, according to Oriem’s intelligence, but he does not know who or how they fare.” Carsten felt his knees buckle as though someone had punched him in the gut.

“Thorvald…” he whispered. “No…”

“Thorvald?” Arcaena asked. “Who is Thorvald?”

“My uncle,” Carsten explained. “If they attacked the village, they would have targeted the family specifically. Strike the shepherd, scatter the sheep. That means Thorvald, my cousin Olaf, and aunt Rowena are all gone.”

“You cannot possibly know that,” she protested. “They could still be alive.”

“Possible, but unlikely,” Deyann answered. “It is unwise to give him hope where little exists. I will give you a few moments, but then I need you to come with me, Arcaena. It is time.” After he went through the door again, she turned and put her hands on Carsten’s shoulder.

“Is there anything I can do?” She asked. “Anything you need?” He shook his head.

“I don’t think you deal in revenge,” Carsten replied. “So no. But I want you to know that I am going to put a stop to these raids, even if it’s the last thing I do.” Arcaena walked to the door, her dream suddenly coming back to her in full force. She knew now that the man in red armor was no man at all; it was Carsten. The thought staggered her; her best friend, her fiancée, she amended, had been impaled, or at least he might suffer such a wound in the future.

“Be careful,” she admonished. “It just might be.”

Vadhyl

One week prior

Thorvald Stormhammer was not happy. Not happy at all. Then again, having one’s village besieged was far from pleasant, and that generally made people more than upset. As village guard leader and elder, he was responsible for its defense. His lieutenant, Qural Ironhoof, ordered the wall defenses while Thorvald himself coordinated the villagers’ evacuation. The attackers had proved inefficient at best at mounting an assault on the walls. Unlike most Outlands villages, Vadhyl had carved stone walls designed to keep the Outlands’ more dangerous inhabitants out. This had proved a wise decision; siege ladders could find no purchase on the smooth dwarven stonework, and siege weapons proved ineffective against it as well. Still, he could not quite shake the feeling that the attackers were waiting for something, though what exactly he was unsure. The villager’s women and children exited through a subterranean passage that came out on the western mountains. The journey was long and treacherous, and the passage itself was notorious unstable. Still, it was their only escape route, and as such, they took it willingly. After his latest trip, Thorvald came out to see Qural running toward him. The fact that the minotaur was running told him two things. First, that he was worried, and second, that he wanted Thorvald’s help, or his advice at the very least.

“What’s the matter?” He asked.

“The outer walls,” Qural said. “They have been taken. I pulled the men back to fight the besiegers again, but I do not know that we can hold them.”

“Taken?” Thorvald echoed. “How? When?”

“About twenty minutes ago,” Qural told him. “They used some kind of soldier I have never seen before; they just appeared on the walls, and the next thing we knew, they had opened the portcullis.”

“Magic,” Thorvald whispered. Looking at Qural, he said, “Are the inner walls’ wardings still intact?” Qural nodded.

“They are,” he answered. “But they also brought battering rams, which they can use against the gate. It will not hold forever.”

Thorvald nodded. “I see,” he murmured. “I want you to pick twenty of the guard. Order them to fall back and collapse the tunnel behind you. We will hold them here.”

“But to do that is suicide,” Qural protested. “You’ll die.”

“It is better for one man and the guard to die than for all our people to perish,” Thorvald answered. “And, Qural…?”

The minotaur nodded, interpreting his nonverbalized statement. “Your son will be with us. You have my word.”

Olaf Thorvaldsen was occupied at the moment. Then again, having someone’s hand around one’s throat generally counted for more than mere occupation. Currently a Vanahym raider was choking him, something that he really hated. Ordinarily, he would have happily decapitated such an enemy with his twin lacquered blue axes, but the raider had managed to knock them away from him. So, back to the problem at hand, or more accurately, with its hands on him. Olaf pulled his left leg up and launched a flat-footed kick into the creature’s knee. The Vanahym staggered and momentarily relaxed his grip. That was more time than Olaf needed; he followed up with a harder kick to his side. Again, the Vanahym went reeling, giving Olaf time to grab one of his axes. The Vanahym turned, though just in time to get the weapon in the gut. His eyes went wide with shock, but they soon took on a mortuary glaze, and he collapsed to the ground. Olaf grabbed his second axe and looked up at the wall; the inside structures were far more poorly crafted than the outside wall, and the siege ladders had somehow found a hold there. The raiders had made it up and over with little trouble, and the guardsmen were quickly overwhelmed. Two more of them charged him, but a series of cuts and hacks put them down for good. Olaf scaled the wall shortly, followed by several guards. Olaf steadily carved his way up the stone rampart, shredding the Vanahym in front of them in short order. With another guardsman at his side, the work went even faster, and the small wedge of fighters soon crested the wall. Another push got them to the siege ladder, which Olaf managed to shove over the wall without much trouble. This, he reasoned, would give the guards more time, which it did. More guards flooded to the walls, throwing stones and spears down at the attackers. Several fell, and a small contingent of archers came to pick of the siege-ladder bearers.

“Olaf!” The yell above the fray startled him, and the voice calling even more so. It was Qural, and he looked down over the wall to see the minotaur standing below him.

“This had better be good,” he muttered.

“No,” he answered. “It’s bad. Very bad.”

“Absolutely not,” Olaf said after Qural had explained himself. “I am not about to leave when everyone else is mounting a defense. This our home, and all for us deserve a chance to at least fight for it.”

“Which you would be doing by coming with us,” Qural told him. “If you refuse to listen to me, at least listen to your father’s command. He told me to gather twenty fighters, and I chose you as one of them.” Even as he said the words, he knew Olaf would obey. His father’s word to him was as good as the word of the Maker himself.

“The rest of my family?” He questioned.

“Safe on the other side,” Qural answered. “Now, come on. They can hold the wall, for the time being.”

“All right,” the dwarf replied, slowly saying the words, as if they pained him. “We go. But get the twenty first, and then we go. And I will be the last.” Qural opened his mouth to protest, but Olaf shook his head.

“There is no negotiating here,” the dwarf told him. “Get to it.”

The twenty fighters were relatively easy to find, and Qural funneled them quite unobtrusively into the tunnel. Some of them however, required weapons, which took additional time. Qural also grabbed some supplies that he had stored in a safe place; “In case of a rainy day,” he explained. They all began to move into the network, led by the minotaur, who had brought a torch to light the way. Before they entered, however, Qural shut the tunnel with a shower of rock and stone, as Thorvald had ordered. Going through the tunnel was slow at best; in more than one area, chasms were bridged by narrow rope-and-plank constructions, which made all of them uneasy. Crossings had to be undertaken one and two at a time, which made the journey even slower. They traveled for about an hour before it happened; they heard voices in the tunnel.

“What is that?” Qural whispered.

“Raiders,” one of the men whispered.

“Not just any raiders,” Olaf murmured. “The ones that took the outside walls. The enchanted ones.”

“I know,” the minotaur answered. “But how did they get in here?”

“The walls might be warded,” Olaf said, “But the tunnels are not.” He looked down the path, seeing a fork in it. “Qural, do you still remember how to do a warding?”

“Yes,” he replied. “But that will merely impede their passage, and we would need time to make more in increments to be sure they do not follow.”

“I can buy you time,” Olaf said. The left fork leads into Madman’s Maze, and I know the way through. I’ll join you after I’ve gotten rid of them.”

“But…” Qural began.

“Shut it and get that warding up. I’m the best fighter after you that’s here,” Olaf snapped. “I’ll get them to follow.” Qural took his chain-blade and carved an impromptu warding on the right side of the fork. Wardings were like magic power stop signs; any powers employed in a certain radius would be rendered ineffective. Of, course, that depended on the warding’s magical frequency; the specific ones that the Shatterhands had placed in the stone and that Qural had erected here simply functioned as magic catch-alls; any being with strong magical powers could not cross without extreme pain. Olaf himself had a decent magical capacity, and he made a mental note not to tell anyone how much he vomited crossing the warding.

“Go,” he whispered. “And the Maker be with you.” And with that, the other twenty men filed down the fork. Olaf waited calmly at the fork until he saw them come into view. They were clad in purple robes that covered their faces, and they had baldrics strung along their chests and covered with daggers, which looked like they might be weighted for throwing.

“Over here!” Olaf shouted. “Come on.” They were aware of him, but he did not wait for them to come. Without a second thought he turned around and ran into the Maze.

The Whisperer leader looked to his men. “It would seem that they left one man as a distraction.”

“Then we do not follow?” One of them asked.

“We do not,” he answered. “On…” The right tunnel blocked him like an invisible wall. He swore and tried again, with similar results. “Warded,” he remarked.

“Then what do we do?” Another asked.

“We follow him,” the leader replied. “If we cannot have them, then at least we shall have revenge.”

Olaf stopped running about twenty minutes in, and he took some time to prepare his strategy. They had magical powers he lacked, and they could strike him unawares as easily as he could strike them. An ambush attack might reveal his position to them…suddenly, he had an idea. He unlimbered his axes and flattened himself against the tunnel wall, waiting.

“It is a maze,” the leader murmured.

“Do we split up?” One asked.

“We do,” he answered. “Find him and take his blood. We will use it to craft a sigil to break the warding.”

The first group of Vanahym to cross paths with Olaf never saw him coming; a swift stroke at the first’s neck decapitated him, and the second barely had time to notice before an axe blow gutted him. The dwarf turned and ran into the tunnels once more. The next group was similarly easy; a series of blows to their backs put them down for good, and vanished once again. By this time, he could hear exclamations of surprise from the other raiders. I suppose they found the bodies, he thought. He pressed his ear against the stone wall, hearing at least four of them on the other side. Olaf took his axe blade and began to carve on the wall, carefully forming the lines of the warding as he did so. Apparently, at least one of the Vanahym heard him, because they all gathered on the other side and began taunting him.

“We will find you, dwarf,” one of them snarled. “And then we will kill you.” Olaf kept his eyes on his work, painstakingly finishing the symbol. Then, he placed his hand on it and whispered the proper incantation. The symbol began to pulsate with a blood-tinged glow, and he heard screams and cries of pain on the other side of the wall, followed by a small explosion. He fought back his own wave of nausea; the raiders on the other side were by no means dead, but they were certainly not going to be a problem again. A warding activated that close to a being of the proper power level was akin to a dragon-fire blast at point-blank range. Even for Olaf, whose aptitude was limited to preparatory spells, such a symbol induced severe motion sickness, and he was fighting with everything he was worth not to vomit. Still, as he staggered down the tunnel, he could not help but feel at least a little satisfaction. He had managed a proper frequency warding without trouble, and that was a feat of which his magic instructor would have been proud.

Rejoicing had to wait, for just at that moment, the leader’s group appeared, four men strong. One rushed him, and Olaf readied himself to fell the attacker with an axe stroke, shaking his dizzied sickness away. His attack, however, sliced only thin air. His opponent vanished in a puff of smoke, and Olaf immediately swung the axe behind him. He heard it crunch solidly and felt a massive impact. Turning, he saw the raider, his eyes wide, with the weapon’s blade stuck in his ribs. Then, the wide eyes closed, and he dropped. Olaf whirled again, but two more were on him. One went for his throat with a knife, but the dwarf dropped his left-hand axe, caught the attacker’s arm, and drove the blade into the other’s chest. His eyes widened, and his body hit the floor. The other was about to draw another knife, but he suddenly arched his back and dropped to his knees. Olaf stared in shock, seeing one of the leader’s knives protruding from his back. The leader, however, did not draw another dagger. Instead, he reached into his belt and pulled a long, wicked-looking sword from its sheath there.

“Weak, are they not?” He asked the dwarf. “In all honesty, they are mere novices. I only wanted to test you to see if you were as good as she said.”

“She?” Olaf echoed. “Never mind.” He swung his axes back and forth. “So, shall we?” The raider assassin removed his hood, revealing a pale, hairless head with a fanged smile and many blued tattoo marks.

“Why not?” In all honesty, the dwarf did not appear impressive. His long hair was a smattering of black, brown, and grey, as though it had no idea what color it preferred. His beard, short for a dwarf, and with only two braids, had definitely decided on jet black. His eyes were green and intelligent, and snake tattoos wound their way up and down his arms, but that was not what the Vanahym leader was looking for. It was that killer instinct, the drive to live even if it cost others their lives. And he saw it.; this dwarf was just as much the killer he was. Maybe even more so. “You are quite good at this, are you not?” He shrugged.

“I hold my own,” he answered. The Vanahym assumed a sword guard position that Olaf recognized. It was a near ward stance, one that played quite readily into a fast, offensive style. His first onslaught confirmed that; a barrage of cuts and hacks, with a few thrusts thrown in for good measure. Olaf dodged a few strokes, parried some more, and deflected the rest. He suddenly tipped the scales and went forward on an assault of his own; he swung low, then thrust one axe-head into the man’s stomach, staggering him. He was about to follow up with a savage cut to his stomach, but something held him back. Literally. Looking down, he saw that, in a final act of spiteful vengeance, one of the other raiders had reached out and grabbed his ankle. He turned just in time to bend-dodge another thrust. However, the raider expected him to do this, and he drew a second, shorter blade from his belt, slashing at Olaf’s head as he went past. The dwarf stopped the blade, but not before it slashed painfully into his right cheek. Suddenly, he felt searing pain, and he realized with a jolt that the attack had sliced out his right eye. Staggering, he turned and ran into the maze, breathing hard. The blood loss alone would finish him, given time, and that meant he needed a way to end this fight quickly and decisively.

“What is the matter?” The raider’s taunting voice called after him. “Are you frightened of me?” Olaf kept moving, finding a dead end in the maze. Once there, he took a moment to collect himself. That done, he reached up and put his hand on the injury, murmuring the words to a healing spell he knew. Magic might not have been his first line of defense, but he had a few lethal spells in case of emergency, in addition to some healing enchantments.

“That will do you no good,” the raider called through the maze. “I can feel your power, boy. You cannot heal a wound inflicted by our weapons; they have mortuary sigils. Carved by my own hand, nearly a millennium ago.” Olaf, despite the pain, started thinking and, more importantly, putting his rather radical contingency plan into action.

Blast. That isn’t good, he thought. Mortuary sigils were an ancient weapon preparation rite, used to render wounds dealt by a weapon so warded incurable by other magic. Olaf always thought of them as a sorcerer’s compensation for poor weapon-craft; it simply accounted for its wielder’s imprecision. He would need a healing spell older than the sigil to counter it, but the oldest healing spell he knew came six centuries after the newest mortuary sigil, and the burning sensation on his face told him this one was old indeed. That, and the age of their wielder, if he spoke the truth, made it unlikely that any healing he or other Outlanders might try could work. There might only be a half dozen mages in all of Pathonia that could counter the spell, and every one of them lived in the Free Peoples’ domain. So a healing is out, he though bitterly. Taking a deep breath, Olaf drew his hand away from his face. He noticed the smear of blood, and then an idea struck him. He gathered as much blood from the wound as he could, and then he began to draw on the wall. First a circle, he recalled. Then the script and incantation. Hopefully, he could prepare the spell before they found him. He drew as he said the words; multitasking was another talent magic-users seemed to exercise frequently.

“Shoyne eschar netras,” he murmured. “Athegen faur amurad…” Suddenly, he heard footsteps outside. He kept drawing, making sure his lines were precise, though certainly moving faster than he had before. An improperly drawn sigil would be ineffective, after all. He just finished as the raider’s leader came around the corner. He had the sword in his hand still, and with him were the remaining eight raiders.

“You have nowhere to run, dwarf,” he mocked. “And no one can save you. Not even your father. You are the last one, the final Shatterhand to die this day. But fear not; we shall soon find the others.” Then, his eyes went to the painting on the wall. Was that a…his heart stopped. That symbol was old, older even that the sigils on their knives. He had been so consumed in his exultation that he had not noticed it. A spell only used by two other people in recallable history. The power emanating from it was overwhelming, to say the least. “You would not…”

“Watch me,” Olaf spat, putting his bloodied hand on the wall and shouting the final words. “Leyghen pauner ka’elderath!” Suddenly, he felt a burning sensation in his chest, and his arm tattoos suddenly started glowing with a harsh red light. Smoke began pouring off his skin, and he felt the fresh wound on his face sear closed, blinding the eye. The raiders stopped, not quite comprehending what they were seeing. Then it happened; the light faded, and then the world went painfully bright. They shielded their eyes, but no force on earth could stop the arcane wave that spread outward from the blood-drawn epicenter. They did not even have time to cry out before the tide of energy engulfed them, and by that time, they could not. They could not even speak, for their mouths, tongues, and skin had turned to rock in the spell’s casting. They stood there, their bodies turned to stone in their clothes, which had remained untouched. Eternal, dynamically frozen statues, captured in still-life. They even still held their weapons, which had also remained unscathed. Olaf took several minutes to rise to his feet, and when he did, there was a strange light burning in his good eye. He walked over to the leader’s petrified form and took the short sword from his hand. As he had said, there was a mortuary sigil on it. Olaf took the weapon and its scabbard, strapping it to his own waist. He used the weapon to carve a patch out of the brown leather of one of the raider’s baldrics, which he lashed over his now-ruined eye. Then, for good measure, he went over and shoved the leader’s statuesque form as hard as he could, watching in cold satisfaction as it shattered. He stopped the rolling stone head with his foot, then gave it a solid kick against a wall, listening with subdued smugness as it cracked.

“Blockhead,” he muttered, turning back toward the tunnel and slowly walking back. Qural’s wading gave him another nausea attack, but Olaf barely felt it. Instead, he only felt cold, remembering the raider’s words. The last of the Shatterhands to die today, he reflected. “I’m sorry, father,” he whispered. “I failed you again.”