The White Fox (27 page)

“Can Thorin actually do anything useful as king?” Lucy asked exasperatedly.

Jack smiled, but Sardâr did not.

“True, Thengel has many deficiencies. He was the next in line for the monarchy, but he is not considered highly amongst his fellows. The dwarves of Thorin Salr are stereotypically stubborn and shun the help—or pleas—of other races. Thengel has led them out of this stereotype somewhat, but in some dwarves’ opinions he has gone too far. Even in allowing us to use alchemy here his support amongst his people has slipped. I doubt those explosives are going down well, either. Many think Bál would make a model king, as he is the complete traditional dwarf: brave, stubborn, powerful, and disdainful of alchemy, and, as I’m sure you’ve seen, other races.” Sardâr regarded them.

“Are we going to do any alchemy today?” Jack asked, trying to change the subject.

“Given the lateness of the hour, I think we will leave it today.” But then, seeing Jack’s disappointed expression, he added, “I see no reason why we shouldn’t continue with the lessons tomorrow. As grudgingly as I admit it, Thengel’s actions make any immediate attack very unlikely indeed.” He looked at them a moment longer. “Go on back to your rooms. I have to send a message.”

The days were shortening now, and a relatively early darkness had fallen upon the valley. Stars glittered across the sky, embellishing its obsidian sheet with silvery lights. However, whilst the fortress and the majority of its inhabitants slept, and the guards kept their weary watch, the other side of the gorge was very much alive.

The figure looked up, feeling the scent of alchemy on the breeze. It was subtle, possibly just a lamp being lit by a spell inside the fortress, but, of course, dwarves didn’t use alchemy. He turned to a second figure on his right.

“Yes, I sense it too.” His voice was low and growling and slightly muffled by the black hood.

“What do you think it was?” The first figure’s voice was higher and delicate. The lizard-like beast he was sitting on gave a slight grunt in its sleep.

“A weak sorcerer, perhaps?”

“No
dwarf
is an alchemist.”

“Then … ?”

“An elf. One I know well.”

The second figure did not inquire. His commander was very secretive. When he had been inducted, he had brought with him a group of other elves from his homeland. Although many theories had arisen amongst the Cult as to his origins, none of those elves had ever been persuaded to disclose their reasons for joining. Past experience had told him it was better not to ask.

“So do we do it now?”

The leader did not reply, just gazed out over the valley. His expression was fathomless under the hood.

“Archbishop?” he prompted.

“Yes, I think so.” The leader turned around.

Their army, too large to fit in the tunnels, had moved to fill the entire valley on the other side of the gorge. Ragged tents of cloth and crude wood had been set up like those in Sitzung. Goblins slept inside, whilst the three giants looked like part of the valley themselves, their hulking forms almost indistinguishable from the extrusions of the rock. The snoring was horrendous.

“Chieftain,” the second said, a little louder than usual.

A nearby goblin, one of the few not in a tent, raised his head. He had been slumped against his mount—a massive dirty brown wild boar—his helmet pulled over his head to shield it from the moonlight. “Now?” he grunted, raising his head higher.

“Yes. Awaken the troops.” The cloaked figure turned to the front. The leader reached into the depths of his cloak, pulling something from a breast pocket. A jet-black stone, almost perfectly round, carved with the ornate rose symbol of Nexus. Although it was purely black, where the light shone through it, its shadow gave a red gleam, throwing his face into harsh relief. Under the hood, high cheek bones, pointed ears, and prominent scar were now deeply shadowed. He lifted the stone above his head, muttering a few words under his breath.

The stone began to shine with a bloodred light, which intensified with every syllable the leader spoke. The last one was shouted, the harsh sound echoing around the valley like a bark.

There was a pause, then a beam of pure crimson light erupted from the stone, shooting like a meteor diagonally upwards into the sky. At its very tip the storm clouds began to swirl around it like a whirlpool, obscuring the moon and many stars. There was a phantasmal flash, an unearthly wail, and black rent through the sky. There, high above them, hung a disc of the purest darkness, red light radiating from its center like a chained star. The clouds burnt around it, fizzling out as they got too close.

The second figure glanced around. All their monstrous allies were awake now, gazing in awe at the sky. The shine was reflected in their glass-like eyes, and they were swaying as if in a light breeze. “They feel it too?” he asked his superior, surprised.

“Strange,” he commented, “I would never have thought so. Perhaps there is some worth in them after all.”

“You are regretting what we’re about to do?”

His face split into an evil grin. “Not in the slightest. It will be most satisfying to be rid of them.”

The second man cackled. “How long do you think it will take them to notice?”

“Not long, but by that time it will be too late.”

“I meant the dwarves.”

“Oh, within the hour. Those sensitive to alchemy will feel it in their sleep.

There was a moment when they both contemplated the fortress. The few windows there were now shining red and black in the dual skylight.

“Now what?” the second asked.

“Now we wait,” replied the elf.

The scene below them was apocalyptic. The valley was bathed in a sinister crimson light, the moon and stars completely eclipsed by the black clouds. The opposite end of the valley swarmed with their enemies, the irradiance revealing how massive their force really was. Right at the back, the hulking form of the giants hunched, looking like miniature mountains themselves. There was not a part of the rocky ground they could see under the horde of creatures, except for at the front. There, a small clearing in the swarm marked several figures out. They were too far away to see clearly, but everyone present seemed to have accepted the worst-case scenario.

“But what’s the point?” asked Thorin. “There’s no force that can form a land bridge strong enough for that army, is there?”

“None that
we
know of,” Adâ replied.

Jack looked at Sardâr. He had said nothing since he had been alerted to the danger. Jack wondered why he was holding back.

Jack scratched his neck again in discomfort, trying to ease the pressure on his upper spine. As soon as everyone had been alerted, Adâ had run him and Lucy down to the armory, where Smith, panicked amidst the chaos of arming an entire fortress at such short notice, had handed over their specially commissioned Dvengr-style armor. It looked beautiful—shining silvery gold, encrusted with rubies on the shoulders, chest, helmet, and forearms. It was made up of a sallet, which left only his face exposed, a cuirass, twin pauldrons and vambraces, tassets and greaves. Along with the chain mail underneath, it was extremely heavy and oppressive in the most uncomfortable places, although better and more accommodating for the ears than the ones they had borrowed.

Lucy was next to him in a similarly encumbering suit. Despite the situation, he smirked when he remembered how she had protested about looking like an obese astronaut.

“What
are
they doing?” Thorin fumed.

No one answered.

This seemed to aggravate him even more, because he started pacing up and down behind them.

Still, no one gave him the slightest bit of attention.

There was movement on the rock below. All the creatures began moving outwards, away from the front and center where the thirteen Cultists stood. The one at the very front seemed to be holding something up, as if to the watchers on the balcony. A metallic clang sliced through the air, and whatever he was holding sparked red momentarily. Everyone looked up. The black eye had started to pulsate like a beating heart. A red light had compressed into a tiny point in the center, forming a concentrated beam that struck like an arrow into the depths of the gorge. It illuminated the rock walls, the broken and useless chunks of machinery hanging on the edges, but even it could not fathom the very bottom.

The portal seemed to groan. Its blackness was congealing, extruding something of itself out of the celestial pit. A moment later, it came free. The immense, shadowy rectangular mass sunk slowly downward, tracing the path of the red beam of light. As it sunk, the liquid darkness solidified, its matter shaping, the color lightening to a charred bluish grey. Then, with an almighty crunch, it landed, its ends making a solid rock pathway between the gorge edges.

Jack struggled to understand what he was seeing, then everything, like the bridge, clunked into place. The volcano. The pit. The mysteriously missing bridge. The Cult must have taken it from there in anticipation of just this. But that was too much of a coincidence. There must have been some other way …

Jack’s thoughts were interrupted by the unmistakable unsheathing of a sword. He turned and was shocked to see Sardâr with his blade out, one edge pressed to the throat of the surviving captain of the search party. Everyone else on the balcony, including Adâ and Hakim, looked dismayed. The one with the sword to his throat, however, did not.

“Sardâr, what on earth are you doing?” shrieked the king.

“This is not one of your captains,” he replied, his eyes still locked on his captive. “This dwarf died, along with the rest of his regiment, three weeks ago.”

Thorin spluttered loudly but was unable to form any words.

“This creature was sent back to you to pose as the surviving captain and has been a spy in our camp ever since. Has he been aware of the decision to use explosives? The Cult could not have thought to remove and retain that bridge from Mount Fafnir unless they suspected they might have to use it. And, of course, we spoke openly about interworld travel in front of this ‘dwarf’ when he first returned, and he made no surprised reaction at all. So, tell us, what are you exactly?”

The dwarf smiled, exposing razor-sharp fangs and a forked tongue too large to fit in his mouth. The thing began to contort, its eyes turning inwards in its head. All its limbs stretched straight outwards, and a pair of rubbery, bat-like wings burst out of its spine. Now there was no hint of a dwarf left but instead a five-foot tall, hunched humanoid, its skin greyish-black with talons extending from its fingers and toes.

It lurched towards the king, but before it had got within a foot of him, there was a thunder-crack noise as Sardâr’s blade, charged with ivory light, swiped cleanly through it. The top half of its body toppled off, severed from the legs, but even as it hit the floor both parts exploded in smoke and disappeared.

“Doppelganger,” Sardâr muttered, retracting his smoking fist.

The king, along with everyone else, looked dumbstruck, staring at the place where the demon had just disappeared.

They were reawakened to the situation by a great wave of primal noise. The mob below had begun to charge across the stone conduit. The few giants there were thundered in their midst, undoubtedly crushing some of their smaller fellows as they rushed towards the fortress. Those on boars—two on each, one riding, one firing flaming arrows upwards at the exposed gangways and windows—reached the front first.