"The Iron Crown of Gamulkor"
Mar. 27th, 2023 09:27 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"The Iron Crown of Gamulkor"
12/2-12/4/1219 DR
I.
Trudging through a grey cheerless dawn that was stealing over the rocky coast came a middle-aged fisherman. His feet were wrapped in rough cured leather and a single garment of deerskin scantily outlined his body. Over this he had wrapped a coarse wool cloak that was heavy with the damp. The wind swirled snow crystals restlessly, obscuring his view but he spotted another man looming up out into the gloom.
This stranger was nearly a head taller than the stocky fisherman, and he had the bearing of a fighting man. Two inches over six feet and he stood, built as powerfully as any blacksmith. Shaggy black hair was roughly trimmed. From under heavy black brows gleamed eyes of a dark blue shot with strange amber flecks.
Even on this bitter winter night, the man had his travel cloak thrown back instead of wrapping himself in it. He wore no armor, not mail nor the chestplate common to the Skandorans, but simple black breeches and a long-sleeved shirt of heavy cotton. The high boots were well-worn from travel. Sheathed at his left hip, supported by a baldric running down from his opposite shoulder, was a three-foot-long straight sword of recognizable Signarm crafting.
"Who are you?" asked the fisherman, with the bluntness of the west.
"Do you not know the answer even as you ask?" answered the other.
"In truth, yes. You are no Dartha nor an Eldanar. Yet no other Race shows ears such as you bear."
Indeed, exposed by the hair swept back, the stranger's ears rose to distinct points. And it was true, that only one Manlike being other than the Darthim or the Eldanarin had such ears.
"It seems legends walk in the flesh tonight," said the fisherman. "Are you not Romal?"
"I am! It is Romal the Mongrel who greets you tonight. Born of no woman, bearing traits of all Seven Races yet belonging among them. I am indeed Romal."
The fisherman did not immediately reply. He had heard many tales of Romal... a strange, bitter man who wandered from nation to nation, ever alone as no normal Human could be. "It's a hard world for a lone wolf," said the fisherman at last.
"True words indeed," Romal answered. "I see you have a boat."
The other nodded toward a small sheltered cove where lay snugly anchored a trim craft built with the skill of a hundred generations of men who had torn their livelihood from the stubborn sea.
"It's small and not meant for war," said Romal. "Yet need presses me. I'll buy it this moment."
"You'll do not such thing. What kind of talk is this? Skandor is less than thirty miles from this coast. Are you not pals with the Skandorim?"
Menace growled in the Mongrel's deep voice. "Have a care, fisherman. It is well known I quarreled with the Skandorim and they now count me as their bitter enemy.
Have you seen a longboat beating up from the south in the last few days?"
"Two days ago! The hated longship with shields lining its hull went sailing by ahead of a storm. They did not stop. Little enough have we here to entice them."
"That would be Bagrok the Fair," muttered Romal, gripping his sword-hilt. "I knew it."
"Ah, you have news of a raid?"
"A band of reavers fell by night on the castle on the promontory at Wyakit. The slaughter was brutal. The Skandoran pirates took Evalyn, daughter of Thul, King of Green Skandor."
"I've heard of her," muttered the fisherman. "Before I was born and before my father was born, the kingdoms of Red Skandor and Green Skandor have been at each others' throats. Do you owe allegiance to either, son?"
"Barely a thread holds me to any Human," said Romal. "I am like no other, alone in this world with all hands against me. Yet, it was King Thul who gave me lodging and paid me to fight with his swordsmen. For nearly a full year, he treated me fairly and the princess spoke to me with kindness. I have sworn no oath to go to her rescue, I do so freely."
"King Thul gathers his forces to asault the stronghold of the Red Skandorim, yet I think he wastes their lives in doing so. There are hundreds of uncharted isldes in this Cold Sea, many no more than rocks sticking up out of the water. I have explored them. Bagrok the Fair had built a hall on the Isle of Slyn in the freezing waters. There he has taken her and there I follow him. Lend me your boat."
"You are mad!" cried the fisherman sharply. "What are you saying. From Connacht to the Hebrides in an open boat? In this weather? I say you are mad."
"It's been said before," answered Romal absently. "Will you lend me your boat?"
"No."
"I might take it by force," waerned Romal.
"You might," returned the fisherman stolidly.
"Don't you understand, it is not for my sake?" snarled the Mongrel in sudden rage, "A princess of Green Skandor is prisoner of a bloody-handed Reaver of the Red and you will not help?"
"Should my own family starve?" retorted the fisherman just as passionately. "Without my boat, how can I feed my wife and child? Where can I get another boat that is not in use?"
The huge Mongrel loomed up menacingly over the short, sturdy fisherman. He dug inside his belt and came up with a single gold coin tied by a string. Snapping it loose, he said, "Here! An Eagle Coin of Signarm, good anywhere in the known world. All I am left in the world is what I wear now. Will you take it?"
The fisherman hesitated, then held out his open hand. "So be it. But I will hold the coin as long as I can. If you return the boat before my family goes hungry, then I will hand this back to you."
"I will return with Evalyn or not at all," promised Romal. "And, if I have my way, I will gift you with a gold trinket or two from a Reaver who needs it no longer."
II.
The day was cheerless leaden. The fisherman stood on the rocks and watched the frail craft glide and twist serpent-like among the rocks until the blast of the open sea smote it and tossed it like a feather. The wind caught sail and the slim boat leaped and staggered, then righted herself and raced before the gale, dwindling until it was but a dancing speck in the eyes of the watcher. And then a flurry of snow hid it from his sight.
Squinting against the cold wind, Romal realized the folly of his crusade. But he had been bred to withstand hardships and peril. Cold and ice and driving sleet that would have frozen a weaker man, only spurred him to greater efforts. The Darthim sorcerers had infused within his Human-seeming body the strength and hardiness of a Fighting Troll.
Eventually, the weather cleared. Romal kept close to the coastline, avoiding the reefs against which it seemed again and again he would be dashed. With tiller, sail and oar he worked tirelessly. Not one man out of a thousand of seafarers could have accomplished it, but Romal did. He needed no sleep; as he steered he ate from the handful of dried meat the fisherman had provided him. By the time he sighted the island, there was still a heavy sea, but the gale had slackened to a sharp breeze that sent the little boat skipping along. A day and a night passed. Once he put into shore for fresh water and to snatch a few hours' sleep.
As he struggled with the elements, he cursed himself for a fool. Every Race hated and feared him. Humans had no love for the Mongrel and yet, here he was once again putting his neck in the path of sword blades to rescue someone who should mean nothing to him. But he remembered that little Princess Evalyn had treated him with courtesy when he had served her father, King Thul. Perhaps it was the naivete of youth that had led her to regard him without uneasiness in her eyes, as even her father sometimes showed.
And now she was a prosoner being taken east to become the unwilling bride of a Skandor reaver. Bagrok the Fair, he was called and by that name he was cursed by many a widow and orphan in the nearby kingdoms.
He was aiming for a small island that lay, with many other small islands, between Red Skandor to the north and Signarm far southward. Clues had been left for him to follow. Smoke drifting from headlands, floating pieces of wreckage, charred timbers showed that Bagrok was ravaging as he went. Romal scowled in savage anticipation. he was close behind the Reavers, in spite of their long lead. For Bagrok was stopping to loot and pillage village as he went, and Romal stay steady on his trail.
He was still a long way behind when he sighted a small island slightly off his course. He knew it of old as one uninhabited, but there he could get fresh water. So he steered for it. The Isle of Swords it was called, no man knew why. And as he neared the beach he saw a sight which he rightly interpreted. Two boats were drawn up on the shelving shore. One was a crude affair, something like the one Romal had, but considerably larger. The other was a long, low craft, undeniably Skandoran. Both were deserted.
Romal listened for the clash of arms but only silence greeted him. These had been fishermen, he thought, from the nearby coast. They had been sighted by some band of Reavers on ship or on some other island, and had been pursued in the long rowboat. But it had been a longer chase than they had anticipated, he was sure. Or else they would not have started out in an open boat. But inflamed with the murder lust, the Reavers would have followed their prey across a hundred miles of rough water, in an open boat, if necessary.
Romal drew inshore, tossed over the stone that served for anchor and leaped upon the beach, sword ready. Then up the shore a short distance he saw a strange red huddle of forms. A few swift strides brought him face to face with mystery. Fifteen red-bearded Reavers sprawled covered with their own gore in a rough circle. Not one breathed. Within this circle, mingling with the bodies of their slayers, lay other men such as Romal had never seen. Short of stature they were, less than five feet high but broad and very sturdy. Their lined faces wore long stiff beards. Romal had ever seen. They were well armored with oiled mail shirts, and their stiff hands still gripped massive two-headed axes.
"This was a grim fight," he muttered. "Aye, this was a rare sword-quenching. Who are these people? Never have I seen their like. Can these be the Dwarfs who dig deep in the mountains and who are seldom met?"
III.
No tracks led away from the carnage. Romal's brows lowered. In his short life, he had strode over many battlefields thick with corpses but this one troubled him.
"These were only a few against nany, yet the slayers died with the slain. What manner of men are these who slay twice their number of Reavers They are small men, yet brawny enough. I have heard of the Dwarfs..."
Another thought struck him. Why did not these strangers scatter and flee, hide themselves in the woods? He believed he knew the answer. There, at the very center of the silent circle, lay a strange thing. A stone post thick and long as the body of a man. Its surface was incised with elaborate patterns etched in silver and gold, a great number of precious stones were inlaid to spell out some esoteric runes he did not recognize. Strangest of all, fastened to the top was a simple battered crown of cold iron, without decoration.
Romal noted the fearful wounds that disfigured all the Dwarves. They had been hard to kill. They had fought until literally hacked to pieces, and even while dying, they had smote their slayers. So much Romal's eyes showed him. In the dead faces of the dark strangers was a terrible desperation. He noted how their dead fingers were still locked in the garments of their foes. Their much greater size and bulk had nor given much advantae of the Red Skandorim.
Somehow, he sensed it was not the valuable gems that these Dwarves had given their lives to protect. It was that crude Iron Crown. Why? He could not say, but gazing at it made him feel respectful, even awed. He would take it with him and return it to the Dwarves if he could.
The Mongrel bent over the stone post and tried to lift it. He expected to encounter great weight and was astonished to find it was no heavier than if it had been made of light hollow wood. He tapped it, and the sound was solid. At first he thought it was of iron; then he decided it was of stone, but such stone as he had never seen; and he felt that no such stone was to be found anywhere in the world that he knew. For like the little dead men, it looked old.
"This was their icon," mused Romal, looking about him. "They fled before the Skandorim but died for their icon at last. Who are these Dwarves? Whence come they? Whither were they bound?"
Carrying the post without difficulty, he spoke to it as if the object could hear. "You were sat on the brow of a king once, Iron Crown," he said to the silent image. "Mayhap you were regarded as a god and reigned over a wide empire. But you shall go with me, Iron Crown, whether you be king, god, or devil. Aye, for it is in my mind that you will bring me luck, and luck is what I shall need when I find my foes."
Romal bound the image securely in the bows. Again he set out for his chase. Now the skies grew gray and the snow fell in driving lances that stung and cut. The waves were gray-grained with ice and the winds bellowed and beat on the open boat. But Romal feared nothing in this world. And his boat rode as it had never ridden before. Through the roaring gale and the driving snow it sped, and to the mind of the Mongrel it seemed that the Iron Crown lent him aid. Surely he would have been lost a hundred times without supernatural assistance. With all his skill at boat-handling, it seemed that more than human skill aided him when he trimmed his sail.
And when all the world was a driving white veil in which even the Mongrel's sense of direction was lost, it seemed to him that he was steering in compliance with a silent voice that spoke in the dim reaches of his consciousness. Nor was he surprised when, at last, when the snow had ceased and the clouds had rolled away beneath a cold silvery moon, he saw land loom up ahead and recognized it as the nameless isle he sought. More, he knew that just around a point of land was the bay where Bagrok's longboat would be moored when not ranging the seas, and a hundred yards back from the bay lay Bagrok's hall.
He grinned fiercely. All the skill in the world could not have brought him to this exact spot. Nor could it be chance. No, it was more than luck. Here was the best possible place for him to make an approach—within half a mile of his foe's hold, yet hidden from sight of any watchers by this jutting promontory. He glanced at the Iron Crown in the bows. A strange feeling stole over the Mongrel, that he was being used by dark unseen Powers he could barely sense.
Romal ran his boat inshore, up into a small creek. A few yards up this he anchored and stepped out onshore. A last glance at the Iron Crown in the bows, and he turned and went hurriedly up the slope of the promontory, keeping to cover as much as possible. At the top of the slope he gazed down on the other side. Less than half a mile away Bagrok's longboat lay at anchor. And there lay Bagrok's hall, also the long low building of rough-hewn log emitting the gleams that betokened the roaring fires within. Shouts of revelry came clearly to the listener through the sharp still air. He ground his teeth.
Revelry! Aye, they were celebrating the ruin and destruction they had committed—the homes left in smoking embers. All the slain men, the ravished girls, the ruined lives. They thought themselves lords of the world, these Reavers, and regarded all the southland folk as mere sheep to be slaughtered. Other nations existed only to furnish them sport, loot and slaves. But Romal calmed himself. He was not here to fight but to steal away the girl they had stolen.
He took careful note of the ground, like a general going over the plan of his campaign. He noted where the trees grew thick close behind the skalli; that the smaller houses, the storehouses and servants' huts were between the main building and the bay. A huge fire was blazing down by the shore and a few men were roaring and drinking about it, but the fierce cold had driven most of them into the drinking-hall of the main building.
Romal crept down the thickly wooded slope, entering the forest which swept about in a wide curve away from the shore. He kept to the fringe of its shadows, approaching the hall in a rather indirect route, but afraid to strike out boldly in the open lest he be seen by the watchers that Bagrok surely had posted. His fingers locked like iron on his sword hilt.
He dropped suddenly in the snow behind a low shrub and lay still. Men were approaching from the same direction in which he had come, men who grumbled loudly and walked heavily. They came into sight. Two of them, huge Skandor warriors, their silver-scaled armor flashing in the moonlight. They were carrying something between them with difficulty and to Romal's amazement he saw it was the stone totem post. His consternation at the realization that they had found his boat was lost in a greater astonishment. These men were giants, their arms bulged with iron muscles. Yet they were staggering under what seemed a stupendous weight. In their hands the totem post seemed to weigh hundreds of pounds; yet Romal had lifted it as lightly as a feather! He almost swore aloud in his amazement. Surely these men were drunk. Or was there more to that Iron Crown than he had feared?
IV.
Instinctively, Romal's eyes flashed to the totem standing somber and aloof from the rout. What was there about that simple piece of metal that seemed so fateful?
"Enough!" shouted Bagrok. "Perform your duty, Magistrate and speak the words! Come here, wench, and be wed!" He jerked the girl off the board and plumped her down on her feet before him. She tore loose from him with flaming eyes. Outrage and pride was roused in her.
"You swine!" she cried. "Do you think I will help you claim my land? Rule over my people? No, I'll never marry you!"
"Then I'll take you as a slave!" he roared, snatching at her wrist.
"Nor that way either!" she exclaimed, her fear forgotten in fierce triumph. She snatched a dagger from his girdle, and before he could stop her, she drove the keen blade up under her heart. The Magistrate cried out as though he himself had received the wound, and springing forward, caught her in his arms as she fell.
"The curse of the Higher Ones on your shoulders, Bagrok!" he cried, with a voice that rang like a clarion, as he bore her to a couch nearby.
Bagrok stood nonplussed. Silence reigned for an instant, and in that instant Romal went mad.
The roar of a full-grown fighting Troll thundered through the stillness, and as men whirled toward that bellows, the frenzied Mongrel lunged through the doorway. Eyes glaring, he crashed through the men who sprawled, off guard, in his path. Those terrible amber-flecked eyes were fixed on Bagrok at the other end of the hall, but as Romal rushed he smote to right and left. His charge was the rush of a whirlwind that left a litter of dead and dying men in his wake.
Benches crashed to the floor, men yelled, ale flooded from upset casks. Swift as a Snake man was the Mongrel's attack but many men blocked his way with drawn swords before he could reach Bagrok. The scarred-faced Reaver went down with a cleft skull before he could lift his weapon, and Romal, catching another's blade on his bracer, struck again like lightning and the clean blade sheared through hauberk, ribs and spine.
The hall was in a terrific uproar. Men were seizing weapons and pressing forward from all sides, and in the midst the lone Mongrel raged silently and terribly. Like a wounded tiger was Romal in his fury. The speed of a Snake man made him a blur of speed and the strength of a Troll made him tireless. Scarce had one man fallen when the Mongrel leaped across his crumpling form at Bagrok, who had drawn his sword and stood as if bewildered. But a rush of Reavers swept between them. Swords rose and fell and the Mongrel flashed among them like lightning in a storm. On either hand and from before and behind, warriors drove at him. From one side a Reaver rushed, swinging a two-handed sword; from the other another drove in with a spear.
Romal stooped beneath the swing of the sword and struck a double blow, forehand and back. Bagrok's brother dropped, hewed through the knee, and the other died on his feet as the back-lash return drove the sword's edge through his skull. Romal straightened, dashing his free fist into the face of the swordsman who rushed him from the front. That rock-hard fist made a ghastly ruin of the man's caved-in features. Even as the Mongrel wheeled cat-like to guard his rear, he felt the shadow of Death loom over him.
From the corner of his eye he saw the giant Askel swinging his great two-handed sword, and jammed against the table, off balance, he knew that even his superhuman quickness could not save him. Then the whistling sword glanced against the stone post on the table and with a clash like thunder, shivered to a thousand blue sparks. Askel staggered, dazedly, still holding the useless hilt, and Romal thrust his sword to strike the Reaver over one eye.
And even at that instant, the air was filled with bellowing war cries. A huge Reaver, his sword still lifted, pitched forward clumsily against the Mongrel, who shoved him away before he saw that the man's head was split from crown to chin. Romal risked his life for a glance toward the great doorway at the other end of the hall.
Through it was pouring a strange attacking horde. Short, stout men they were, with long stiff beards beneath immobile faces. They were well armored and swung massive, short-handled axes with both hands gripping. Those double-edged weapons sliced through torsos and limbs like butchers preparing meals.
Now a hellish wave of combat swept the great hall, a storm of steel that shattered tables, smashed the benches, tore the hangings and trophies from the walls, and stained the floors with red puddles. There were fewer of the Dwarfs than Reavers, but the surprise of the attack had evened the odds, and now at hand-grips the strange warriors showed themselves in no way inferior to their huge foes.
Dazed with the ale they had drunk, with no time to arm themselves fully, the Skandormen yet fought back with all the reckless ferocity of their race. But the determined fury of the attackers matched their own valor, and at the head of the hall, where a white-faced Magistrate shielded a dying girl, Romal tore and ripped with a frenzy that made valor and fury alike futile.
And over all towered the presence of the Iron Crown. To Romal's shifting glances, caught between the flash of sword and ax, it seemed that the stone post had grown to loom gigantic over the battle.
The madness of battle rocked the mighty hall. The floor became a shambles where men slipped in pools of blood, and having lowered their defenses, died. Heads spun grinning from slumping shoulders. Barbed spears tore the heart, still beating, from the gory breast. Brains splashed and clotted the madly driving axes. Daggers lunged upward, ripping bellies and spilling entrails upon the floor. The clash and clangor of steel rose deafeningly. No quarter was asked or given. A wounded Dwarf had dragged down one of the Reavers, and doggedly strangled him regardless of the dagger his victim plunged again and again into his body.
Bagrok fought like a lion, his golden beard bristling with the battle-joy. He had placed his back against the wall and a Dwarf fell at each sweep of his two-handed broadsword. Now Romal came at him in a rush, avoiding with a lithe twist of his upper body the first ponderous stroke of that huge sword. Swifter than any Human, Romal struck before the giant could shift his heavy weapon, the slim blade licked out like a striking cobra and Askel reeled as the edge bit through the corselet into the ribs beneath. Another stroke and he crumpled, blood gushing from his temple.
Now none barred Romal's way to Bagrok except Redbeard, but even as the Mongrel sprang toward the slashing pair, one was ahead of him. The chief of the Dwarves stooped under the sweep of Redbeard's sword, and his own short dagger thrust upward under the mail. Bagrok was left to face Romal alone. Bagrok was no coward; he even grinned with pure bloodlust as he thrust, but there was no answering mirth in Romal's face, only a cold determination hard as steel.
In the first clash of their weapons, Bagrok's sword broke. The young Reaver leaped at his foe, thrusting with the shards of the blade. Romal swerved as the jagged remnant gashed his cheek, and at the same instant he swung low and cut Bagrok's left foot from under him. The Skandoran fell with a heavy crash, then struggled to his knees, clawing at his belt for his dagger. His eyes were clouded with pain.
"Make an end to it, curse you!" he snarled.
Romal growled more like a beast than ever. "Was your dream of kingship worth it?" he taunted. "You pay for it with your life."
V.
Romal backhanded his sword in a whistling arc that clove the Skandoran open from shoulder to breastbone. Another stroke severed the head, and with the grisly trophy in his hand he approached the couch where Evalyn lay. The Magistrate was cradling her head and held a goblet of wine to her pale lips. Her clouding eyes rested with slight recognition of Romal but it seemed at the last she knew him and she tried to smile.
"This may be of little comfort to you, Evalyn," said the Mongrel. "But I know honor means much to your people. Behold, the offense to your honor has been avenged." And he held up the severed head of Bagrok, blood still dripping from its neck.
"Stop, stop, I beg you," said the Magistrate, his voice husky with horror, "have done, have done. See, she is dead. The maiden is beyond all pain and grief now."
Romal dropped his gruesome trophy to the floor and his own head was bowed. All the fire of his rage had left him and there remained only a a deep sense of futility and weariness. Over all the hall there was almost no sound. No groans of the casualties were raised, for the knives of the Dwarfs had been at work, and save their own, there were no wounded remaining alive.
Romal sensed that the survivors had gathered about the stone post on the table and now stood looking at him with inscrutable eyes. The Magistrate mumbled over the body of the girl, reciting some ritual. Flames ate at the farther wall of the building, but none heeded it. Then from among the dead on the floor a huge form heaved up unsteadily. Overlooked by the killers, Askel leaned against the wall and stared about dazedly. Blood flowed from one wound in his ribs and another in his scalp where Romal's blade had struck glancingly.
The Mongrel walked over to him. "I see you did not take part in the abduction," said he, heavily, "still, you must die."
Askel looked at him without an answer. His bloodshot eyes were serious, but without fear. He was a barbarian who realized the grim realities. But as Romal raised his chipped and reddened sword, the Magistrate sprang between them with his thin hands outstretched.
"Have done! Please stand down. Has not enough blood been shed this fearful night? In the name of the Higher Ones, I claim this man."
Romal lowered his arm. "He is yours, not for your oath or your curse. My sword has drunk its fill. It is sated as a glutton." Feeling a presence near him, he turned. The chief of the Dwarves stood regarding him with inscrutable eyes.
"Who are you?" asked the Mongrel wearily, for he did not much care.
"I am Dimuk, chief of the Dwarves of Gamulkor in the Blue Mountains. We thank you for guarding the Iron Crown. It rode in the bows of your boat and guided you here through wind and snow. It saved your life when it broke the great sword of the Skandoran."
Romal glanced at the strange jewel-bedecked pillar. "What is this thing?" asked the Mongrel.
"It is all we have left of our greatest ancestor," answered the other somberly. "It is the Iron Crown of the Father of our kind, Temanku, he who gathered the broken lines of the Dwarfish tribes into a single mighty nation, he who drove forth the Skandorim and Trolls and repelled the colonizers of Maroch, centuries ago. A wizard made this memorial post while the great Temanku lay dying, and we believe that when he died in the last great battle, his spirit entered into it."
As in a dream Romal saw an ancient, white-bearded Dwarf lift the image from the table. The old man's arms were thin as withered branches and his skin clung to his skull like a mummy's, but he handled with ease the image that two strong Reavers had had trouble in carrying.
As if reading his thoughts, Dimuk spoke softly: "Only a friend may with safety touch the Iron Crown. We knew you to be a friend, for it rode in your boat and did you no harm."
"How know you this?"
"The Old One," pointing to the white-bearded ancient, "That is Ankut, shaman of the Dwarves. The ghosts of our ancestors come to him in dreams to give counsel. The golden-bearded giant that you slew? He led the raiders who stole the image and took to sea in a long boat. In dreams Ankut followed; aye, as he slept he sent his spirit with the ghost of the First Father, and he saw the pursuit by the Reavers, the battle and slaughter on that tiny isle. He saw you come upon the Iron Crown, and he saw that the ghost of our great king was pleased with you. Woe to those who make themselves foes of Dwarfs! But good luck shall reward the friends of them."
Romal came to himself as waking from a trance. The heat of the burning hall slapped his face and the flickering flames lit the scene the as the Dwarves bore the posy from the building. Was it truth that the spirit of a long-dead king lived in that cold stone? Temanku loved his people with a savage love; he hated their foes with a terrible hate. Was it possible to breathe into inanimate blind stone a pulsating love and hate that should outlast the centuries?
Romal ripped down a richly embroidered tapestry. He lifted the slight form of the dead girl and wrapped her in it, then bore her out of the flaming hall. Five long open boats lay at anchor, and scattered about the embers of the fires the Reavers had lit, lay the reddened corpses of the revelers who had died silently.
"How stole ye upon these undiscovered?" asked Romal. "And whence came you in those open boats?"
"We do not claim to be sailors, nor do we be stealthy," answered the Dwarf. "But these were drunken fools. We followed the path of the Iron Crown and we came hither from the mainland, from whence the Reavers stole the post."
Romal acknowledged the courage of these men in daring the seas in crude boats such as these. He thought of his own boat and requested Dimuk to send some of his men for it. The Dwarf did so. While he waited for them to bring it around the point, he watched the Magistrate bandaging the wounds of the survivors. Silent, immobile, they spoke no word either of complaint or thanks.
The fisherman's boat came scudding around the point just as the first hint of sunrise reddened the waters. The Dwarves were getting into their own boats, lifting in their dead and wounded. Romal stepped into his boat and gently eased his pitiful burden down.
"She shall sleep in her own land," he said somberly. "She shall not lie in this heartless foreign isle. Dimuk, whither go you?"
"We take the Crown back to our realm of Gamulkor, deep within Blue Mountain and its altar," said the Dwarf. "Through the mouth of his people he thanks you. The tie of blood is between us, Mongrel, and mayhap we shall come to you again in your need, as Temanku, great king of Dwarfdom, shall come again to his people some day in the days to come."
"And you, good Magistrate? You will come with me?"
The Magistrate shook his head and pointed to Askel. The wounded Reaver reposed on a rude couch made of skins piled on the snow. "I stay here to attend this man. He is sorely wounded."
Romal looked about. The walls of the great hall had crashed into a mass of glowing embers. Dimuk's men had set fire to the storehouses and the long galley, and the smoke and flame vied luridly with the growing morning light.
"You will freeze here or starve," the Mongrel said. "Come with me."
"Providence will provide. Go in peace, my son."
"He is a Reaver, he has done great evil."
"No matter. He still is a fellow man. I will not leave him to die."
"Have it your way then." Romal prepared to cast off. The boats of the Dwarves were already rounding the point. The rhythmic clacks of their oar-locks came clearly to him. They looked not back, bending stolidly to their work.
He glanced at the stiff corpses about the beach, at the charred embers of the skalli and the glowing timbers of the galley. In the glare the Magistrate seemed unearthly in his thin white robe, like a ghost half-glimpsed.
Gazing at the wreckage and the shambles, Romal felt only a deep melancholy.
"Humans are fools," he said. "The heavy hand of the Darthim presses down upon their necks, more heavily than chains. The known world suffers under tyranny of the pale sorcerers of Maroch. And yet, Humans do not rise up together to overthrow their enslavers. Instead, they quarrel and scheme against each other for petty bits of land. When will Humans see what they must do?"
"Perhaps," offered the Magistrate, "a leader is needed. A clear voice, urging and uniting them. A leader whom even warring peoples will stand together behind."
A faint smile touched Romal's mouth. "Ah. A leader who is of no one Race or nation? An outsider they can respect and even fear. Where could such an outsider be found, I wonder?"
The Magistrate made no further comment as Romal climbed into the boat. The morning wind caught and filled the sail, and into the west he sailed with the dawn behind him. And so passed Romal the Mongrel from yet another nightmarish battle, leaving only two living men on an island where mere hours before, a hundred had feasted.
3/27/2023
12/2-12/4/1219 DR
I.
Trudging through a grey cheerless dawn that was stealing over the rocky coast came a middle-aged fisherman. His feet were wrapped in rough cured leather and a single garment of deerskin scantily outlined his body. Over this he had wrapped a coarse wool cloak that was heavy with the damp. The wind swirled snow crystals restlessly, obscuring his view but he spotted another man looming up out into the gloom.
This stranger was nearly a head taller than the stocky fisherman, and he had the bearing of a fighting man. Two inches over six feet and he stood, built as powerfully as any blacksmith. Shaggy black hair was roughly trimmed. From under heavy black brows gleamed eyes of a dark blue shot with strange amber flecks.
Even on this bitter winter night, the man had his travel cloak thrown back instead of wrapping himself in it. He wore no armor, not mail nor the chestplate common to the Skandorans, but simple black breeches and a long-sleeved shirt of heavy cotton. The high boots were well-worn from travel. Sheathed at his left hip, supported by a baldric running down from his opposite shoulder, was a three-foot-long straight sword of recognizable Signarm crafting.
"Who are you?" asked the fisherman, with the bluntness of the west.
"Do you not know the answer even as you ask?" answered the other.
"In truth, yes. You are no Dartha nor an Eldanar. Yet no other Race shows ears such as you bear."
Indeed, exposed by the hair swept back, the stranger's ears rose to distinct points. And it was true, that only one Manlike being other than the Darthim or the Eldanarin had such ears.
"It seems legends walk in the flesh tonight," said the fisherman. "Are you not Romal?"
"I am! It is Romal the Mongrel who greets you tonight. Born of no woman, bearing traits of all Seven Races yet belonging among them. I am indeed Romal."
The fisherman did not immediately reply. He had heard many tales of Romal... a strange, bitter man who wandered from nation to nation, ever alone as no normal Human could be. "It's a hard world for a lone wolf," said the fisherman at last.
"True words indeed," Romal answered. "I see you have a boat."
The other nodded toward a small sheltered cove where lay snugly anchored a trim craft built with the skill of a hundred generations of men who had torn their livelihood from the stubborn sea.
"It's small and not meant for war," said Romal. "Yet need presses me. I'll buy it this moment."
"You'll do not such thing. What kind of talk is this? Skandor is less than thirty miles from this coast. Are you not pals with the Skandorim?"
Menace growled in the Mongrel's deep voice. "Have a care, fisherman. It is well known I quarreled with the Skandorim and they now count me as their bitter enemy.
Have you seen a longboat beating up from the south in the last few days?"
"Two days ago! The hated longship with shields lining its hull went sailing by ahead of a storm. They did not stop. Little enough have we here to entice them."
"That would be Bagrok the Fair," muttered Romal, gripping his sword-hilt. "I knew it."
"Ah, you have news of a raid?"
"A band of reavers fell by night on the castle on the promontory at Wyakit. The slaughter was brutal. The Skandoran pirates took Evalyn, daughter of Thul, King of Green Skandor."
"I've heard of her," muttered the fisherman. "Before I was born and before my father was born, the kingdoms of Red Skandor and Green Skandor have been at each others' throats. Do you owe allegiance to either, son?"
"Barely a thread holds me to any Human," said Romal. "I am like no other, alone in this world with all hands against me. Yet, it was King Thul who gave me lodging and paid me to fight with his swordsmen. For nearly a full year, he treated me fairly and the princess spoke to me with kindness. I have sworn no oath to go to her rescue, I do so freely."
"King Thul gathers his forces to asault the stronghold of the Red Skandorim, yet I think he wastes their lives in doing so. There are hundreds of uncharted isldes in this Cold Sea, many no more than rocks sticking up out of the water. I have explored them. Bagrok the Fair had built a hall on the Isle of Slyn in the freezing waters. There he has taken her and there I follow him. Lend me your boat."
"You are mad!" cried the fisherman sharply. "What are you saying. From Connacht to the Hebrides in an open boat? In this weather? I say you are mad."
"It's been said before," answered Romal absently. "Will you lend me your boat?"
"No."
"I might take it by force," waerned Romal.
"You might," returned the fisherman stolidly.
"Don't you understand, it is not for my sake?" snarled the Mongrel in sudden rage, "A princess of Green Skandor is prisoner of a bloody-handed Reaver of the Red and you will not help?"
"Should my own family starve?" retorted the fisherman just as passionately. "Without my boat, how can I feed my wife and child? Where can I get another boat that is not in use?"
The huge Mongrel loomed up menacingly over the short, sturdy fisherman. He dug inside his belt and came up with a single gold coin tied by a string. Snapping it loose, he said, "Here! An Eagle Coin of Signarm, good anywhere in the known world. All I am left in the world is what I wear now. Will you take it?"
The fisherman hesitated, then held out his open hand. "So be it. But I will hold the coin as long as I can. If you return the boat before my family goes hungry, then I will hand this back to you."
"I will return with Evalyn or not at all," promised Romal. "And, if I have my way, I will gift you with a gold trinket or two from a Reaver who needs it no longer."
II.
The day was cheerless leaden. The fisherman stood on the rocks and watched the frail craft glide and twist serpent-like among the rocks until the blast of the open sea smote it and tossed it like a feather. The wind caught sail and the slim boat leaped and staggered, then righted herself and raced before the gale, dwindling until it was but a dancing speck in the eyes of the watcher. And then a flurry of snow hid it from his sight.
Squinting against the cold wind, Romal realized the folly of his crusade. But he had been bred to withstand hardships and peril. Cold and ice and driving sleet that would have frozen a weaker man, only spurred him to greater efforts. The Darthim sorcerers had infused within his Human-seeming body the strength and hardiness of a Fighting Troll.
Eventually, the weather cleared. Romal kept close to the coastline, avoiding the reefs against which it seemed again and again he would be dashed. With tiller, sail and oar he worked tirelessly. Not one man out of a thousand of seafarers could have accomplished it, but Romal did. He needed no sleep; as he steered he ate from the handful of dried meat the fisherman had provided him. By the time he sighted the island, there was still a heavy sea, but the gale had slackened to a sharp breeze that sent the little boat skipping along. A day and a night passed. Once he put into shore for fresh water and to snatch a few hours' sleep.
As he struggled with the elements, he cursed himself for a fool. Every Race hated and feared him. Humans had no love for the Mongrel and yet, here he was once again putting his neck in the path of sword blades to rescue someone who should mean nothing to him. But he remembered that little Princess Evalyn had treated him with courtesy when he had served her father, King Thul. Perhaps it was the naivete of youth that had led her to regard him without uneasiness in her eyes, as even her father sometimes showed.
And now she was a prosoner being taken east to become the unwilling bride of a Skandor reaver. Bagrok the Fair, he was called and by that name he was cursed by many a widow and orphan in the nearby kingdoms.
He was aiming for a small island that lay, with many other small islands, between Red Skandor to the north and Signarm far southward. Clues had been left for him to follow. Smoke drifting from headlands, floating pieces of wreckage, charred timbers showed that Bagrok was ravaging as he went. Romal scowled in savage anticipation. he was close behind the Reavers, in spite of their long lead. For Bagrok was stopping to loot and pillage village as he went, and Romal stay steady on his trail.
He was still a long way behind when he sighted a small island slightly off his course. He knew it of old as one uninhabited, but there he could get fresh water. So he steered for it. The Isle of Swords it was called, no man knew why. And as he neared the beach he saw a sight which he rightly interpreted. Two boats were drawn up on the shelving shore. One was a crude affair, something like the one Romal had, but considerably larger. The other was a long, low craft, undeniably Skandoran. Both were deserted.
Romal listened for the clash of arms but only silence greeted him. These had been fishermen, he thought, from the nearby coast. They had been sighted by some band of Reavers on ship or on some other island, and had been pursued in the long rowboat. But it had been a longer chase than they had anticipated, he was sure. Or else they would not have started out in an open boat. But inflamed with the murder lust, the Reavers would have followed their prey across a hundred miles of rough water, in an open boat, if necessary.
Romal drew inshore, tossed over the stone that served for anchor and leaped upon the beach, sword ready. Then up the shore a short distance he saw a strange red huddle of forms. A few swift strides brought him face to face with mystery. Fifteen red-bearded Reavers sprawled covered with their own gore in a rough circle. Not one breathed. Within this circle, mingling with the bodies of their slayers, lay other men such as Romal had never seen. Short of stature they were, less than five feet high but broad and very sturdy. Their lined faces wore long stiff beards. Romal had ever seen. They were well armored with oiled mail shirts, and their stiff hands still gripped massive two-headed axes.
"This was a grim fight," he muttered. "Aye, this was a rare sword-quenching. Who are these people? Never have I seen their like. Can these be the Dwarfs who dig deep in the mountains and who are seldom met?"
III.
No tracks led away from the carnage. Romal's brows lowered. In his short life, he had strode over many battlefields thick with corpses but this one troubled him.
"These were only a few against nany, yet the slayers died with the slain. What manner of men are these who slay twice their number of Reavers They are small men, yet brawny enough. I have heard of the Dwarfs..."
Another thought struck him. Why did not these strangers scatter and flee, hide themselves in the woods? He believed he knew the answer. There, at the very center of the silent circle, lay a strange thing. A stone post thick and long as the body of a man. Its surface was incised with elaborate patterns etched in silver and gold, a great number of precious stones were inlaid to spell out some esoteric runes he did not recognize. Strangest of all, fastened to the top was a simple battered crown of cold iron, without decoration.
Romal noted the fearful wounds that disfigured all the Dwarves. They had been hard to kill. They had fought until literally hacked to pieces, and even while dying, they had smote their slayers. So much Romal's eyes showed him. In the dead faces of the dark strangers was a terrible desperation. He noted how their dead fingers were still locked in the garments of their foes. Their much greater size and bulk had nor given much advantae of the Red Skandorim.
Somehow, he sensed it was not the valuable gems that these Dwarves had given their lives to protect. It was that crude Iron Crown. Why? He could not say, but gazing at it made him feel respectful, even awed. He would take it with him and return it to the Dwarves if he could.
The Mongrel bent over the stone post and tried to lift it. He expected to encounter great weight and was astonished to find it was no heavier than if it had been made of light hollow wood. He tapped it, and the sound was solid. At first he thought it was of iron; then he decided it was of stone, but such stone as he had never seen; and he felt that no such stone was to be found anywhere in the world that he knew. For like the little dead men, it looked old.
"This was their icon," mused Romal, looking about him. "They fled before the Skandorim but died for their icon at last. Who are these Dwarves? Whence come they? Whither were they bound?"
Carrying the post without difficulty, he spoke to it as if the object could hear. "You were sat on the brow of a king once, Iron Crown," he said to the silent image. "Mayhap you were regarded as a god and reigned over a wide empire. But you shall go with me, Iron Crown, whether you be king, god, or devil. Aye, for it is in my mind that you will bring me luck, and luck is what I shall need when I find my foes."
Romal bound the image securely in the bows. Again he set out for his chase. Now the skies grew gray and the snow fell in driving lances that stung and cut. The waves were gray-grained with ice and the winds bellowed and beat on the open boat. But Romal feared nothing in this world. And his boat rode as it had never ridden before. Through the roaring gale and the driving snow it sped, and to the mind of the Mongrel it seemed that the Iron Crown lent him aid. Surely he would have been lost a hundred times without supernatural assistance. With all his skill at boat-handling, it seemed that more than human skill aided him when he trimmed his sail.
And when all the world was a driving white veil in which even the Mongrel's sense of direction was lost, it seemed to him that he was steering in compliance with a silent voice that spoke in the dim reaches of his consciousness. Nor was he surprised when, at last, when the snow had ceased and the clouds had rolled away beneath a cold silvery moon, he saw land loom up ahead and recognized it as the nameless isle he sought. More, he knew that just around a point of land was the bay where Bagrok's longboat would be moored when not ranging the seas, and a hundred yards back from the bay lay Bagrok's hall.
He grinned fiercely. All the skill in the world could not have brought him to this exact spot. Nor could it be chance. No, it was more than luck. Here was the best possible place for him to make an approach—within half a mile of his foe's hold, yet hidden from sight of any watchers by this jutting promontory. He glanced at the Iron Crown in the bows. A strange feeling stole over the Mongrel, that he was being used by dark unseen Powers he could barely sense.
Romal ran his boat inshore, up into a small creek. A few yards up this he anchored and stepped out onshore. A last glance at the Iron Crown in the bows, and he turned and went hurriedly up the slope of the promontory, keeping to cover as much as possible. At the top of the slope he gazed down on the other side. Less than half a mile away Bagrok's longboat lay at anchor. And there lay Bagrok's hall, also the long low building of rough-hewn log emitting the gleams that betokened the roaring fires within. Shouts of revelry came clearly to the listener through the sharp still air. He ground his teeth.
Revelry! Aye, they were celebrating the ruin and destruction they had committed—the homes left in smoking embers. All the slain men, the ravished girls, the ruined lives. They thought themselves lords of the world, these Reavers, and regarded all the southland folk as mere sheep to be slaughtered. Other nations existed only to furnish them sport, loot and slaves. But Romal calmed himself. He was not here to fight but to steal away the girl they had stolen.
He took careful note of the ground, like a general going over the plan of his campaign. He noted where the trees grew thick close behind the skalli; that the smaller houses, the storehouses and servants' huts were between the main building and the bay. A huge fire was blazing down by the shore and a few men were roaring and drinking about it, but the fierce cold had driven most of them into the drinking-hall of the main building.
Romal crept down the thickly wooded slope, entering the forest which swept about in a wide curve away from the shore. He kept to the fringe of its shadows, approaching the hall in a rather indirect route, but afraid to strike out boldly in the open lest he be seen by the watchers that Bagrok surely had posted. His fingers locked like iron on his sword hilt.
He dropped suddenly in the snow behind a low shrub and lay still. Men were approaching from the same direction in which he had come, men who grumbled loudly and walked heavily. They came into sight. Two of them, huge Skandor warriors, their silver-scaled armor flashing in the moonlight. They were carrying something between them with difficulty and to Romal's amazement he saw it was the stone totem post. His consternation at the realization that they had found his boat was lost in a greater astonishment. These men were giants, their arms bulged with iron muscles. Yet they were staggering under what seemed a stupendous weight. In their hands the totem post seemed to weigh hundreds of pounds; yet Romal had lifted it as lightly as a feather! He almost swore aloud in his amazement. Surely these men were drunk. Or was there more to that Iron Crown than he had feared?
IV.
Instinctively, Romal's eyes flashed to the totem standing somber and aloof from the rout. What was there about that simple piece of metal that seemed so fateful?
"Enough!" shouted Bagrok. "Perform your duty, Magistrate and speak the words! Come here, wench, and be wed!" He jerked the girl off the board and plumped her down on her feet before him. She tore loose from him with flaming eyes. Outrage and pride was roused in her.
"You swine!" she cried. "Do you think I will help you claim my land? Rule over my people? No, I'll never marry you!"
"Then I'll take you as a slave!" he roared, snatching at her wrist.
"Nor that way either!" she exclaimed, her fear forgotten in fierce triumph. She snatched a dagger from his girdle, and before he could stop her, she drove the keen blade up under her heart. The Magistrate cried out as though he himself had received the wound, and springing forward, caught her in his arms as she fell.
"The curse of the Higher Ones on your shoulders, Bagrok!" he cried, with a voice that rang like a clarion, as he bore her to a couch nearby.
Bagrok stood nonplussed. Silence reigned for an instant, and in that instant Romal went mad.
The roar of a full-grown fighting Troll thundered through the stillness, and as men whirled toward that bellows, the frenzied Mongrel lunged through the doorway. Eyes glaring, he crashed through the men who sprawled, off guard, in his path. Those terrible amber-flecked eyes were fixed on Bagrok at the other end of the hall, but as Romal rushed he smote to right and left. His charge was the rush of a whirlwind that left a litter of dead and dying men in his wake.
Benches crashed to the floor, men yelled, ale flooded from upset casks. Swift as a Snake man was the Mongrel's attack but many men blocked his way with drawn swords before he could reach Bagrok. The scarred-faced Reaver went down with a cleft skull before he could lift his weapon, and Romal, catching another's blade on his bracer, struck again like lightning and the clean blade sheared through hauberk, ribs and spine.
The hall was in a terrific uproar. Men were seizing weapons and pressing forward from all sides, and in the midst the lone Mongrel raged silently and terribly. Like a wounded tiger was Romal in his fury. The speed of a Snake man made him a blur of speed and the strength of a Troll made him tireless. Scarce had one man fallen when the Mongrel leaped across his crumpling form at Bagrok, who had drawn his sword and stood as if bewildered. But a rush of Reavers swept between them. Swords rose and fell and the Mongrel flashed among them like lightning in a storm. On either hand and from before and behind, warriors drove at him. From one side a Reaver rushed, swinging a two-handed sword; from the other another drove in with a spear.
Romal stooped beneath the swing of the sword and struck a double blow, forehand and back. Bagrok's brother dropped, hewed through the knee, and the other died on his feet as the back-lash return drove the sword's edge through his skull. Romal straightened, dashing his free fist into the face of the swordsman who rushed him from the front. That rock-hard fist made a ghastly ruin of the man's caved-in features. Even as the Mongrel wheeled cat-like to guard his rear, he felt the shadow of Death loom over him.
From the corner of his eye he saw the giant Askel swinging his great two-handed sword, and jammed against the table, off balance, he knew that even his superhuman quickness could not save him. Then the whistling sword glanced against the stone post on the table and with a clash like thunder, shivered to a thousand blue sparks. Askel staggered, dazedly, still holding the useless hilt, and Romal thrust his sword to strike the Reaver over one eye.
And even at that instant, the air was filled with bellowing war cries. A huge Reaver, his sword still lifted, pitched forward clumsily against the Mongrel, who shoved him away before he saw that the man's head was split from crown to chin. Romal risked his life for a glance toward the great doorway at the other end of the hall.
Through it was pouring a strange attacking horde. Short, stout men they were, with long stiff beards beneath immobile faces. They were well armored and swung massive, short-handled axes with both hands gripping. Those double-edged weapons sliced through torsos and limbs like butchers preparing meals.
Now a hellish wave of combat swept the great hall, a storm of steel that shattered tables, smashed the benches, tore the hangings and trophies from the walls, and stained the floors with red puddles. There were fewer of the Dwarfs than Reavers, but the surprise of the attack had evened the odds, and now at hand-grips the strange warriors showed themselves in no way inferior to their huge foes.
Dazed with the ale they had drunk, with no time to arm themselves fully, the Skandormen yet fought back with all the reckless ferocity of their race. But the determined fury of the attackers matched their own valor, and at the head of the hall, where a white-faced Magistrate shielded a dying girl, Romal tore and ripped with a frenzy that made valor and fury alike futile.
And over all towered the presence of the Iron Crown. To Romal's shifting glances, caught between the flash of sword and ax, it seemed that the stone post had grown to loom gigantic over the battle.
The madness of battle rocked the mighty hall. The floor became a shambles where men slipped in pools of blood, and having lowered their defenses, died. Heads spun grinning from slumping shoulders. Barbed spears tore the heart, still beating, from the gory breast. Brains splashed and clotted the madly driving axes. Daggers lunged upward, ripping bellies and spilling entrails upon the floor. The clash and clangor of steel rose deafeningly. No quarter was asked or given. A wounded Dwarf had dragged down one of the Reavers, and doggedly strangled him regardless of the dagger his victim plunged again and again into his body.
Bagrok fought like a lion, his golden beard bristling with the battle-joy. He had placed his back against the wall and a Dwarf fell at each sweep of his two-handed broadsword. Now Romal came at him in a rush, avoiding with a lithe twist of his upper body the first ponderous stroke of that huge sword. Swifter than any Human, Romal struck before the giant could shift his heavy weapon, the slim blade licked out like a striking cobra and Askel reeled as the edge bit through the corselet into the ribs beneath. Another stroke and he crumpled, blood gushing from his temple.
Now none barred Romal's way to Bagrok except Redbeard, but even as the Mongrel sprang toward the slashing pair, one was ahead of him. The chief of the Dwarves stooped under the sweep of Redbeard's sword, and his own short dagger thrust upward under the mail. Bagrok was left to face Romal alone. Bagrok was no coward; he even grinned with pure bloodlust as he thrust, but there was no answering mirth in Romal's face, only a cold determination hard as steel.
In the first clash of their weapons, Bagrok's sword broke. The young Reaver leaped at his foe, thrusting with the shards of the blade. Romal swerved as the jagged remnant gashed his cheek, and at the same instant he swung low and cut Bagrok's left foot from under him. The Skandoran fell with a heavy crash, then struggled to his knees, clawing at his belt for his dagger. His eyes were clouded with pain.
"Make an end to it, curse you!" he snarled.
Romal growled more like a beast than ever. "Was your dream of kingship worth it?" he taunted. "You pay for it with your life."
V.
Romal backhanded his sword in a whistling arc that clove the Skandoran open from shoulder to breastbone. Another stroke severed the head, and with the grisly trophy in his hand he approached the couch where Evalyn lay. The Magistrate was cradling her head and held a goblet of wine to her pale lips. Her clouding eyes rested with slight recognition of Romal but it seemed at the last she knew him and she tried to smile.
"This may be of little comfort to you, Evalyn," said the Mongrel. "But I know honor means much to your people. Behold, the offense to your honor has been avenged." And he held up the severed head of Bagrok, blood still dripping from its neck.
"Stop, stop, I beg you," said the Magistrate, his voice husky with horror, "have done, have done. See, she is dead. The maiden is beyond all pain and grief now."
Romal dropped his gruesome trophy to the floor and his own head was bowed. All the fire of his rage had left him and there remained only a a deep sense of futility and weariness. Over all the hall there was almost no sound. No groans of the casualties were raised, for the knives of the Dwarfs had been at work, and save their own, there were no wounded remaining alive.
Romal sensed that the survivors had gathered about the stone post on the table and now stood looking at him with inscrutable eyes. The Magistrate mumbled over the body of the girl, reciting some ritual. Flames ate at the farther wall of the building, but none heeded it. Then from among the dead on the floor a huge form heaved up unsteadily. Overlooked by the killers, Askel leaned against the wall and stared about dazedly. Blood flowed from one wound in his ribs and another in his scalp where Romal's blade had struck glancingly.
The Mongrel walked over to him. "I see you did not take part in the abduction," said he, heavily, "still, you must die."
Askel looked at him without an answer. His bloodshot eyes were serious, but without fear. He was a barbarian who realized the grim realities. But as Romal raised his chipped and reddened sword, the Magistrate sprang between them with his thin hands outstretched.
"Have done! Please stand down. Has not enough blood been shed this fearful night? In the name of the Higher Ones, I claim this man."
Romal lowered his arm. "He is yours, not for your oath or your curse. My sword has drunk its fill. It is sated as a glutton." Feeling a presence near him, he turned. The chief of the Dwarves stood regarding him with inscrutable eyes.
"Who are you?" asked the Mongrel wearily, for he did not much care.
"I am Dimuk, chief of the Dwarves of Gamulkor in the Blue Mountains. We thank you for guarding the Iron Crown. It rode in the bows of your boat and guided you here through wind and snow. It saved your life when it broke the great sword of the Skandoran."
Romal glanced at the strange jewel-bedecked pillar. "What is this thing?" asked the Mongrel.
"It is all we have left of our greatest ancestor," answered the other somberly. "It is the Iron Crown of the Father of our kind, Temanku, he who gathered the broken lines of the Dwarfish tribes into a single mighty nation, he who drove forth the Skandorim and Trolls and repelled the colonizers of Maroch, centuries ago. A wizard made this memorial post while the great Temanku lay dying, and we believe that when he died in the last great battle, his spirit entered into it."
As in a dream Romal saw an ancient, white-bearded Dwarf lift the image from the table. The old man's arms were thin as withered branches and his skin clung to his skull like a mummy's, but he handled with ease the image that two strong Reavers had had trouble in carrying.
As if reading his thoughts, Dimuk spoke softly: "Only a friend may with safety touch the Iron Crown. We knew you to be a friend, for it rode in your boat and did you no harm."
"How know you this?"
"The Old One," pointing to the white-bearded ancient, "That is Ankut, shaman of the Dwarves. The ghosts of our ancestors come to him in dreams to give counsel. The golden-bearded giant that you slew? He led the raiders who stole the image and took to sea in a long boat. In dreams Ankut followed; aye, as he slept he sent his spirit with the ghost of the First Father, and he saw the pursuit by the Reavers, the battle and slaughter on that tiny isle. He saw you come upon the Iron Crown, and he saw that the ghost of our great king was pleased with you. Woe to those who make themselves foes of Dwarfs! But good luck shall reward the friends of them."
Romal came to himself as waking from a trance. The heat of the burning hall slapped his face and the flickering flames lit the scene the as the Dwarves bore the posy from the building. Was it truth that the spirit of a long-dead king lived in that cold stone? Temanku loved his people with a savage love; he hated their foes with a terrible hate. Was it possible to breathe into inanimate blind stone a pulsating love and hate that should outlast the centuries?
Romal ripped down a richly embroidered tapestry. He lifted the slight form of the dead girl and wrapped her in it, then bore her out of the flaming hall. Five long open boats lay at anchor, and scattered about the embers of the fires the Reavers had lit, lay the reddened corpses of the revelers who had died silently.
"How stole ye upon these undiscovered?" asked Romal. "And whence came you in those open boats?"
"We do not claim to be sailors, nor do we be stealthy," answered the Dwarf. "But these were drunken fools. We followed the path of the Iron Crown and we came hither from the mainland, from whence the Reavers stole the post."
Romal acknowledged the courage of these men in daring the seas in crude boats such as these. He thought of his own boat and requested Dimuk to send some of his men for it. The Dwarf did so. While he waited for them to bring it around the point, he watched the Magistrate bandaging the wounds of the survivors. Silent, immobile, they spoke no word either of complaint or thanks.
The fisherman's boat came scudding around the point just as the first hint of sunrise reddened the waters. The Dwarves were getting into their own boats, lifting in their dead and wounded. Romal stepped into his boat and gently eased his pitiful burden down.
"She shall sleep in her own land," he said somberly. "She shall not lie in this heartless foreign isle. Dimuk, whither go you?"
"We take the Crown back to our realm of Gamulkor, deep within Blue Mountain and its altar," said the Dwarf. "Through the mouth of his people he thanks you. The tie of blood is between us, Mongrel, and mayhap we shall come to you again in your need, as Temanku, great king of Dwarfdom, shall come again to his people some day in the days to come."
"And you, good Magistrate? You will come with me?"
The Magistrate shook his head and pointed to Askel. The wounded Reaver reposed on a rude couch made of skins piled on the snow. "I stay here to attend this man. He is sorely wounded."
Romal looked about. The walls of the great hall had crashed into a mass of glowing embers. Dimuk's men had set fire to the storehouses and the long galley, and the smoke and flame vied luridly with the growing morning light.
"You will freeze here or starve," the Mongrel said. "Come with me."
"Providence will provide. Go in peace, my son."
"He is a Reaver, he has done great evil."
"No matter. He still is a fellow man. I will not leave him to die."
"Have it your way then." Romal prepared to cast off. The boats of the Dwarves were already rounding the point. The rhythmic clacks of their oar-locks came clearly to him. They looked not back, bending stolidly to their work.
He glanced at the stiff corpses about the beach, at the charred embers of the skalli and the glowing timbers of the galley. In the glare the Magistrate seemed unearthly in his thin white robe, like a ghost half-glimpsed.
Gazing at the wreckage and the shambles, Romal felt only a deep melancholy.
"Humans are fools," he said. "The heavy hand of the Darthim presses down upon their necks, more heavily than chains. The known world suffers under tyranny of the pale sorcerers of Maroch. And yet, Humans do not rise up together to overthrow their enslavers. Instead, they quarrel and scheme against each other for petty bits of land. When will Humans see what they must do?"
"Perhaps," offered the Magistrate, "a leader is needed. A clear voice, urging and uniting them. A leader whom even warring peoples will stand together behind."
A faint smile touched Romal's mouth. "Ah. A leader who is of no one Race or nation? An outsider they can respect and even fear. Where could such an outsider be found, I wonder?"
The Magistrate made no further comment as Romal climbed into the boat. The morning wind caught and filled the sail, and into the west he sailed with the dawn behind him. And so passed Romal the Mongrel from yet another nightmarish battle, leaving only two living men on an island where mere hours before, a hundred had feasted.
3/27/2023
