The Chosen by Kris Kramer (best novels ever txt) 📖

“What, are ye going to tell me a secret?”

The shaman shook his head sadly. “Hardly, Master.”

“Then talk. Tell me about this,” Blade indicated the left side of his face. Only a hint of pink scars showed under the makeshift bandages.

“You said you remembered the fire. And ash, yes?”

The dwarf thought for a moment. “There is something else. Roaring, like a dragon. The whole world shook.”

“Yes, yes it did.”

Gruesome knew what the shaman had to tell his master. The destruction of his home. Tarac and the girl leaned in, for they were too young to remember the day the Great Mountain burned.

Pjodarr closed his eyes. “I was in the var pens that night. You know how much I love being with them. My stomach had been bothering me for days, and I thought it was just some passing ailment. But they were upset, and I could not calm them. I think now they knew what Fjur had tried to warn me about.

“Suddenly, the ground beneath my feet began to tremble. The walls of Northwatch cracked and the very earth bubbled. I ran to your chamber as fast as I could, and tried to keep the ground still. It was a futile effort, of course. By the time I reached your tower, fire was spewing from fissures. Black smoke choked the air. I bounded up the steps and crushed the wood of your doors. Part of the wall had caved in, and hit you on the head. You were bleeding and unconscious.”

The shaman took a deep breath. “I healed you and led you to the door. That was when the tower fell. I could feel the fire all around us. I was hurt from the fall, but nothing too serious. I healed myself-,” he stopped as tears ran in rivers down his cheeks. “If I hadn’t done that, I would have gotten to you sooner, Master.”

Blade held up a hand. “Or we both may have died. Continue.”

“Your body was broken, but you still breathed. I pulled bricks and stone off you, then the fire came.” The old slave stared into the flames with bitter enmity; flames that brought warmth to them all and pushed the night’s darkness away, but also brought terrible memories to him. “I cannot call it fire, though. It was liquid and burned hotter than the forges of the Great City. When it ran over your face, it took all of my power to pull it from you. You screamed. I tried to heal you, but…I have never been the best.” He looked into the dwarf’s one eye. “Do you remember what you told me, Master?”

The Lord of Northwatch’s coal-black eye never left his servant. “’This is not my death.’”

Pjodarr nodded. “I knew it was a command. But you did die. In my arms, who swore to perish before you. It took me several hours to drag you to the soulstone.”

Soulstones were powerful artifacts. Few existed in the Bergmark. Gruesome knew the dwarves held all but one of them in their great keeps, the last belonging to the High Lord of Freemark. They were deep magic, stolen from the Calderans and their goddess. The soulstones had the power to resurrect the dead, as long as their bodies were brought to it before the next dawn. Havtrols did not care for the things. What is the point of killing your enemy, only to fight him again?

“I brought you back, and healed what I could. But your wounds were great, and you died again. So, I brought you back and healed you more.”

“How did the soulstone escape the fire, good shaman?” Tarac’s eyes were wide. Gruesome shared the boy’s curiosity. Few survived the Burning. Most of those were in much worse shape than the dwarf and shaman.

“I protected it, Tarac. I used every gift Fjur had ever given me.” He turned his attention back to the dwarf. “This went on for some time, Master.”

“How long, boy?” Blade’s voice did not even crack.

“Almost three days.” The priest and girl gasped. “You died nine times in all. Each time you lived a bit longer and suffered more. I exhausted myself keeping you alive through the second dawn. All the while, smoke and ash and fire threatened us.” He smiled grimly. “But you were right; the gods did not want that to be your death.

“On the third day, you stood. But you would not speak. You asked for no food, no water. I gave them to you when I ate or drank. You responded when I talked. When I told you to do something, you would do it.”

“What happened to Northwatch, boy?”

The shaman shook his head. “Gone, Master, turned to rubble and ash. The Great Mountain drowned it in fire.”

Blade gritted his teeth. “What else?”

Pjodarr bowed his head. “The Great City met the same fate. Everything was destroyed, the palace, the library, the forges…everything.”

“What became of my House?”

“You, Master. You are all that remains of House Thurin. What few survived were forced to swear fealty to one of the other Houses.”

Blade’s eye bore a hole in the old slave. “Who rules the Mark now?”

“House Darvos.”

The dwarf snorted.

“There is more.” Pjodarr raised his eyes to his master. “That was seventeen years ago. They say the Great Mountain still bellows out black smoke. All of the land around the Great City is deserted. No one lives there, nothing grows. Two other great cities fell to the smoke and ash in the year that followed. Vrolldag and Stromheim. The dwarves were in crisis, and had to do something. They had to find new farmland to feed the people. At first, it was said some suggested taking the free cities, and even attacking the havtrols.”

Blade laughed at this. He met Gruesome’s eyes. “Can ye imagine? Invade ye people, and give them a reason to all fight together. The gods give each of us a fool.”

“Luckily,” the shaman continued, “cooler heads prevailed. They decided to retake the northern lands of Caldera. Some two years later, they invaded Grunland and renamed it Sudmark. The Calderans were none too happy about it, but they were already at war with the Fain. Of course, the elves didn’t want to let the humans be the only ones fighting two wars, so they attacked the dwarves as well.”

“Fools, they probably could have crushed the humans.”

Pjodarr shrugged at the dwarf’s words. “Do not underestimate the Calderans, Master. They have some good leaders, and their people still fight for their homes.” He made a dismissive gesture. “But none of that matters for now. There’s been peace for a couple of years. If you can call this peace.”

“And why did ye bring me here?”

The shaman smiled wistfully. “I didn’t at first, Master. I took you to my family’s home in Freemark.”

Blade’s belly shook as he laughed heartily. “I bet Aela loved that! No wonder we’re so far away now!”

“She did not mind, Master,” Pjodarr shook his head sadly. “But she passed some years ago. She did not share my bond with Fjur, and it was her time to go.”

The dwarf sobered. The fire danced in his eye as it moistened. “Ye lost ye sweet bride, boy? I am sorry.”

The shaman bowed his head. “She lived a good life, Master. She lived to see her first great-grandchild. When she went, her whole family was there. You were there. She was grateful for us all.”

“She meant the world to me, Pjodarr. For all the happiness she brought ye.” Something passed between the two, and Gruesome felt as if he intruded on them. He lowered his eyes to the ground.

The rest of the night passed in somber silence. The general slept again and was ready to travel the next morning, though his mood was somewhat mournful. He did not argue when the girl asked if she could ride behind him again, and only raised an eyebrow when they left Folik behind. Pjodarr promised to explain it to him later.

They followed the havtrol’s blood at a much quicker pace. When Tarac mentioned that it felt like the Honorless was close, Pjodarr jumped from his var to scout ahead. He returned with a very casual demeanor, but his face was unreadable behind the silver mask.

“You might want to take the lead, Master.”

“Why would a general attack an Honorless havtrol first?” the dwarf asked, bemused.

“No, there’s a troop of dwarves not forty yards ahead. They appear to be guarding some sort of cave.”

Blade grunted. “A cave, in a forest? Are ye mad?” He stroked his long beard. “Who are these dwarves?”

“House Darvos, although their men don’t usually patrol this far south.”

“No,” the dwarf sounded thoughtful. “Ye make the introductions. Ye know more of what goes on here than me.”

Pjodarr bowed. “I will represent my master well.” The old general grunted again. The shaman turned to Tarac. “Don’t say a word, unless asked a question directly. Which will be unlikely, since they won’t speak norovid to us.” He paused. “Perhaps it’s best if we wait for Folik. His sudden entrance might spark a new war.”

They gave the var a rest until the dead man came crashing through the forest. Gruesome had to marvel at the pace he kept. A havtrol could sprint almost as fast as one of the big wolves, but he had never seen a human move so quickly. Especially while wearing armor.

They made their way steadily to the northwest again. A whistle went out long before they saw any sign of the dwarves. The shaman’s craftiness never ceased to amaze Gruesome. How could he travel without being seen by a trained scout? There was commotion ahead of them, and they were soon met by four dwarves atop their var. A large dwarf with a thick brown beard walked his mount forward. Pjodarr ruffled his var’s neck and brought the pack to a stop. The big wolves’ noses all sniffed the air.

Gruesome saw four vertical stripes painted on the dwarf’s armor to signify his rank as a sergeant. His helm bore the stag, the crest of House Darvos. He looked a bit young to the havtrol. The Burning and the war had taken a hard toll on the dwarves’ numbers. Before, they would not allow one of their own to ride to war until they had seen at least thirty seasons. Martial training was important to the rulers of Bergmark. They taught their soldiers tactics before they ever held a sword. The large shield strapped to the man’s back meant he was a Warshield. That meant even more training. This dwarf was already a sergeant, meaning he’d proven himself in battle, and he couldn’t be more than forty. These terrible times had changed everything for the stout men of the mountains.

“I am Vordin, First Sergeant of the Ninth Army of House Darvos. Name your purpose in these woods.”

Pjodarr bowed as deeply as he could from the var’s back. “We are hunters, Sergeant. We come to you on the way to our quarry.”

“You bear the crest of House Thurin. A House that is no more.”

Blade’s breath hissed between his teeth, but the general said nothing. “You speak wrongly, Sergeant, but not of your own determination. My master will give you the right of it.”

The dwarf held up a hand. “Your master will give me nothing. This would be a matter for my captain. You two and the havtrol do not worry me.” He pointed to Tarac and Folik. “But you travel with a human wizard and a mercenary. I would know why before I let you go any further.”

Gruesome tensed. How would they take the boy, a High Priest of Durum Tai and his undead companion?

“He is not a wizard, First Sergeant. He is Tarac, a priest of Drogu; and this is Folik, his guardian.”