by Michael Meyerhofer
in Issue 110, March 2021
Jalist tugged at his cloak and tried to ignore the blizzard that only seemed to thicken as the sun went down. A campfire sputtered in front of him as snowflakes mingled with the flames, causing them to hiss and flicker, drawing ever lower by the moment. Though Jalist had gone to great pains to build his fire beneath the boughs of one of the few evergreens inhabiting the sparse tundra, said tree seemed to be doing very little to protect him against the elements. Jalist sighed and rested his back against the tree, shuddering when the cold seeped through his cloak.
I shouldn’t even be here, he thought. The Dwarrs—his people—preferred the south, especially this time of year. He imagined resting in the halls of Tarator near a roaring hearth, a flagon of mulled wine in hand. He started to smile, then cursed. Tarator was on the other end of the continent, practically as far from the frigid Wintersea as you could get. It would be weeks before he saw it again—if ever.
Jalist shook his head. No, I’ll make it back. After everything I’ve gone through… I just have to sleep a little first. He closed his eyes. Even as he tried to rest, though, he placed one hand on the shaft of his axe, which he kept with him under his cloak, and listened through the howling wind for when someone inevitably tried to sneak up on him. He considered the mad series of events that had led him here.
Two weeks ago, he’d left Tarator on a mission that should have been as tedious as it was uneventful: representing his people at the coronation of the new king of Ivairia, an allied kingdom bordering the Wintersea. Though diplomacy was not Jalist’s strong suit, he’d suspected that among the honored guests would be friends he’d fought beside during the wars. As much as Jalist loathed the thought of lofty speeches and bland, formal dinners, he’d set out with eagerness. But that eagerness vanished on the road, the moment he spotted the assassins.
“Should have just slipped by and gotten help,” he muttered. “Why in the gods’ names did I try to take care of it myself?”
A voice said, “That’s a very good question, my love.”
Jalist leapt to his feet, fumbled with his axe, then stopped mid-swing. In an instant, he went from startled to smiling, then disguised his smile behind a scowl. “I wondered if you’d find me.”
A thin, blond man in a white cloak stood before him. Though the man wore leather armor, no weapons hung from his belt. Nor did he appear perturbed by the snow falling all around him. “Wasn’t easy. The snow filled in your tracks. Luckily, you left plenty of bodies to follow.”
Jalist grunted and drummed his fingers against the long, leather-wrapped haft of his axe. He noted that although Maddoc had surely been forced to tromp through the heavy snow to reach him, he’d made no sound and left no tracks in his wake. “Assassins,” Jalist said. “They’re after the new king.”
“Naturally. And now they’re after you.”
“How many following me?”
“As of yesterday, six.” Maddoc paused. “As of now… none.” He stepped forward, eyed Jalist’s dying campfire for a moment, then stretched out one hand. Purple flames ignited around Maddoc’s fingers, twisting and writhing a moment before leaping earthward. Jalist’s campfire immediately changed color to match Maddoc’s wytchfire, surging so high and hot that Jalist recoiled.
“I spotted a dozen of them on the road just south of Ivairia, all on foot. No sigil, but quality weapons and armor. Definitely not sellswords.” Jalist leaned his long axe against the tree and stretched out his hands, still scowling despite the pleasure he felt as Maddoc’s fire warmed him. “I hid and watched them for a while. They talked about a second group they were supposed to meet on the road. Talked about a big job they’d been paid for. Based on the direction they were headed, it didn’t take long to figure out what that was.”
Maddoc nodded. “So you rode on ahead, told our allies what you’d seen, and they sent a hundred Lancers to catch these men before they could cause any harm.” He paused. “No, that’s right, you didn’t. Instead, you tried to kill them all by yourself, and they chased you north like a frightened rabbit.”
Jalist cleared his throat. “I was doing fine until they caught me spying one night. I tried to play it off like I was just a traveler but one of them recognized me—”
“And probably wondered why you weren’t traveling with twenty or thirty bodyguards,” Maddoc interrupted. “Which begs the question… why aren’t you?”
Jalist shuddered. The fact that Maddoc’s pupils were as white as the surrounding snow added an extraordinarily chilling effect to the berating. Not that I don’t deserve it. “Look,” he said, “I just wanted to get out on my own for a while. I was tired of bodyguards and servants. We’d already decided you were staying in Tarator so—”
“So you set out by yourself, nearly got yourself killed, and thus proved the necessity of bodyguards in the first place,” Maddoc finished. “You’re lucky it was me who found you.”
Jalist shrugged. “I’m still alive. Not even hurt. Lost my horse and shield in the fighting but I could have—”
“That’s not what I mean,” Maddoc said. “When I saw the first batch you took to chopping, I spoke telepathically with Zeia, who was a few miles west with Saanji. She said she’d get word to Rowen and Igrid and—”
“So they’re all looking for me?”
Maddoc started to smile, then mirrored Jalist’s scowl. “No need to be embarrassed. Just because they postponed the entire coronation, and armies from four different nations are currently scouring the countryside for you, it’s no reason to—”
Jalist unleashed a string of Dwarrish obscenities. When he was done, he glanced at Maddoc and had the distinct impression that the sorcerer was holding back laughter. That caused a smile to tug at the corners of Jalist’s lips though he did his best to squelch it. “That wasn’t necessary. None of this. I could have—”
“You’re the governor of Stillhammer and one of the heroes from the War of the Lotus. *Both *wars, in fact,” Maddoc interrupted, “to say nothing of thwarting an attempt on the life of the new King of Ivairia.” He paused. “Perhaps *thwarted* is a bit of an overstatement.”
“Like hells,” Jalist protested. “I told you, there were a dozen of them! All armed and quick as rain. I barely—”
“Barely managed to leave six for me,” Maddoc quipped. “Incidentally, I forgive you.”
Jalist cleared his throat again. “Glad to hear it.”
“So if we’ve adequately staved off death by frostbite, shall we get going? Rowen and his Knights are probably only a day and a half south of here.”
Jalist turned, noting how the setting sun had stretched red fingers over the pale white tundra. Even as he watched, those fingers seemed to wither, turning black. He shook his head. “Between us, we might have wiped out the first cadre of assassins, but we still don’t know about the second.”
“True,” Maddoc said, “but there’s no way they can carry out their mission now. They’ve probably already fled back to whoever hired them.”
“Maybe,” Jalist said, “or maybe if they can’t do what they were paid for, they’ll figure they should at least carve up the man who botched it for them.”
Maddoc’s smile thinned. “There’s no one following you to the south. I’m sure of that. But if they circled around, tried to flank you…”
Jalist nodded. “Might be nothing. Or there might still be a flock of thirsty swords out there. North, maybe.”
“All the more reason to reunite with our friends.”
Jalist imagined his friends waiting for him to the south: Isle Knights in glittering kingsteel armor and tabards of azure silk, Lancers in heavy armor and spurs, perhaps even a rowdy bunch of Queshi who valued their liquor as much as their bows and horses. They would be seen and heard for miles. Any assassins seeking retribution would know to keep their distance. *But if they don’t give up, they’ll follow us back to Tarator, wait for weeks until our guard is down. Then—*
Jalist glanced at Maddoc, remembered the cool efficiency of the men he’d fought on the road, how lucky he’d been to escape with his life. “No,” he said. “We need to finish them ourselves—out here, now, while they think I’m still alone.”
Maddoc frowned. For a moment, it looked like the sorcerer would argue. Then he smiled. “Tell me this isn’t just for your own amusement.” He stepped forward, took hold of a curl of Jalist’s hair—one that had turned gray—and tugged it gently before letting it go.
Jalist imagined one of those same assassins slipping into their bedchamber while Maddoc slept. He swallowed hard. “It’s not like that. I promise.”
Maddoc nodded. “So be it.” He turned and waved one hand over the campfire. Instantly, it changed from purple to orange. “If they don’t know I’m here, this shouldn’t be too difficult.”
Jalist noted that as soon as the campfire changed color, reverting back to its natural state, the drop in warmth let the cold rush back in, chilling him down to his bones. Suppressing a shudder, he said, “That’s the plan.”
“Some plan.” Maddoc moved back to the tree and sat down.
After a moment, Jalist joined him. Both hands still held the shaft of his axe. He hugged the weapon to him. “I’m sorry I dragged you out here.”
“I already said I forgive you,” Maddoc said, “though that doesn’t change the fact that you’re an idiot.” He started to smile, then stopped. “Gods, I nearly forgot…”
“Forgot what?”
“What day it is,” Maddoc said.
Jalist groaned. “Don’t remind me.” Though he had not mentioned it, another reason he’d been eager to leave Tarator for the open road was the approach of Hammer’s Eve, a Dwarrish festival in the dead of winter, celebrating the fervent hope for a brighter tomorrow. But after all Jalist had seen in the wars—the near annihilation of his own people, months spent burying bodies—the festival sickened him now.
“But aren’t we supposed to exchange gifts beneath a recreation of the World Tree?” Maddoc glanced up, at the snow-laden boughs of the evergreen.
“Not if I have anything to say about it.”
Something in Jalist’s tone drew an urgent look from Maddoc, whose ghostly eyes studied him a moment, then nodded. “I’m sorry. I won’t mention it again.”
Jalist’s mood softened. He reminded himself that for all the destruction and sorrow he’d witnessed throughout the wars, Maddoc had probably seen even more. After all, Maddoc had been born into a race of sorcerers who, until relatively recently, were either killed at birth or chased all their lives by mobs. And here I am, making him risk his life!
Jalist released one hand from the shaft of his axe. He found Maddoc’s hand and squeezed it. “Listen, I’m sorry I left the way I did. I should have known you’d follow me. I didn’t—”
“Shut up.” Maddoc kissed him, then said, “I trust you have a gift waiting back home for me.”
Jalist blushed. “A little something. Nothing worthwhile but—”
Maddoc laughed. “Gifts shouldn’t be prefaced with apologies.” Jalist blushed further but Maddoc squeezed his hand. “Actually, I have something for you, too. I brought it with me.” He released Jalist’s hand and reached into his cloak.
Reflexively, Jalist lowered his eyes to Maddoc’s hand. Too late, he saw Maddoc’s other hand snaking inward, toward Jalist’s forehead. He tried to jerk back but a jolt of magic sped through Jalist’s skull, hurtling him toward darkness.
“Damn you,” he managed. A chilling emptiness surged up all around him. He could no longer see or feel the fire, could not see anything but Maddoc’s face.
“I’m sorry,” Maddoc said, his tone uncharacteristically somber. “Best you leave this mess to me.” The sorcerer caught Jalist’s head before the Dwarr could slump forward and eased him back against the tree.
Jalist opened his mouth to protest but before he could summon the strength to speak, the chilling darkness swept over him.
*
Maddoc straightened from the tree. He looked down at Jalist for a moment, then took a step back and slowly surveyed the encroaching darkness with abilities both natural and not. He finally nodded, satisfied. There was still no sign of the assassins in the near vicinity, which meant they weren’t close enough to have spotted Jalist’s campfire. Maddoc sighed, wondering if he’d made the right decision.
Though he’d spotted the second group of assassins a day earlier, he’d decided not to mention this to Jalist, fearing that the news would only encourage Jalist to fight them now rather than risk being followed all the way back to Tarator—though Jalist had ended up choosing that course of action anyway. Maddoc could not fault him. From what Maddoc had seen of the killers, they were exceptionally well-trained, probably former Isle Knights or Lancers who’d been banished from their respective orders during the war. Such men were not likely to forgive Jalist’s interference in their plans.
Maddoc returned his gaze to Jalist. The well-muscled Dwarr shuddered in his sleep, as though caught in a nightmare. Maddoc was tempted to touch Jalist’s forehead again and expunge whatever dark thoughts were troubling him, but resisted. That would require additional energies, and soon, Maddoc would need all the strength he had.
“Happy Hammer’s Eve,” he whispered. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll keep you safe, for once.” He kissed Jalist’s forehead, touched his graying curl again, then rose and stepped closer to the fire. He took a deep breath to calm his nerves, then knelt and closed his eyes. A faint purple glow enveloped his body as he extended his consciousness. Unencumbered by skin and bone, his spirit flitted over the tundra at the speed of thought, racing without sound over miles of blank snow and darkening ice. He no longer heard the wind but sensed everything, down to the slide of moonlight over the tundra and the insects burrowed deep beneath the snow.
They aren’t here…
Maddoc felt a surge of hope, thinking the killers had given up after all. Then, he spotted them moving like shadows behind a broad snowbank: ten men, dressed like commoners despite the quality of their boots and the sheen of chainmail beneath their clothes. Though they’d taken pains to conceal the luster of their armor by darkening it with soot, the steady falling snow had washed some of it away, and the men glinted whenever they moved. To his surprise, despite the biting cold, not a single man cursed.
Why don’t they have horses? It seemed unlikely that they would travel on foot through such harsh lands, though he reminded himself that horses, while faster, were far easier to track. Before Maddoc could contemplate this further, he felt a sudden surge of weariness—a reminder of just how exhausting divination could be—but he resisted the impulse to return at once to his body. Instead, he drew closer to the men, studying them more intently, hoping to gain information he’d been too worried to notice when he fought their comrades the day before. He examined their weapons first, noting that every man had a crossbow slung across his back, and his belt carried a matching longsword and stiletto. His senses tingled, informing him—even without being able to actually see the sheathed blades—that they were poisoned. He sensed the same threat emanating from the tips of the crossbow bolts resting in quivers at their sides.
Had Maddoc’s spirit still inhabited his body, he might have frowned. The killers’ matching blades, though plain, were obviously of high quality, identical down to their black pommels and thin brass crossguards. However, none bore a sigil, even though Maddoc had never known a fanatic without a peculiar attachment to iconography.
Ignoring a growing sense of weariness that seemed to double by the second, Maddoc fixed his attentions solely on a single figure he suspected of being the group’s leader: a middle-aged man whose handsome features shown with a coldness that had little to do with the climate of the Wintersea. His long dark hair had been slicked back with pig fat. Maddoc caught a glint of silver at the man’s throat, followed it to a thin medallion concealed beneath his clothing, and managed to get a good look at the emblem carved there—right before a dizzying jolt told him it was time to return to his own body.
Maddoc drifted upward, away from the killers, and wheeled back toward his body. He raced ahead, as fast as his spirit could manage. Panic rose as he raced across the twilit tundra. He realized he might very well succumb to exhaustion before spirit and flesh could reunite, but the thought of Jalist waking and finding Maddoc dead beside the campfire gave him renewed strength. With a dizzying rush of speed, Maddoc’s spirit closed the distance and spotted his own body kneeling in the snow, next to a dying campfire.
Spirit slammed back into flesh and Maddoc’s eyes jerked open. He gasped for breath, a terrible pain in his chest. Despite the agony in his lungs, he made himself take another breath, then another. Gradually, he regained control of his senses. He realized he’d fallen sideways, narrowly missing what remained of the fire. In his weakened state, he felt the awful icy air of the Wintersea for the first time. With great effort, he pushed himself to his hands and knees, then crawled back to the tree and sat beside Jalist, who still slumbered unaware.
“Sons of Maelmohr,” Maddoc gasped, remembering the sigil he’d seen: a frightfully thin black dragon surrounded by what was either red flames or disembodied clouds of blood. The symbol belonged to a cult of magic-haters, thought to have been wiped out in the last war. Since the cult had begun with the specific purpose of eradicating Maddoc’s kind, the prospect of burning another chapter of them to cinders was not altogether unpleasant. But he reminded himself that during the last war, the Sons of Maelmohr had been named after the fiery god of judgment worshipped by the Dwarrs. In fact, he’d never seen a single Son of Maelmohr who wasn’t a Dwarr—yet those men out there, moving through the dark, were Humans.
“Glad to see hatred for my kind is still spreading like a bad rumor,” Maddoc grumbled to his sleeping lover. “Perhaps you should have picked a fellow Dwarr as your mate. Might go better for you in the next election.” Maddoc closed his eyes, rested another moment, then stood. He looked down at Jalist again. “Sorry to say farewell twice in one night, but with any luck, I’ll be back before you wake.”
Maddoc faced the campfire, which by now had nearly died, so that just a single tongue of yellow flame wavered above a circle of snow-damp rocks. Despite his weariness, Maddoc waved his hand and the flames reignited, leaping high despite their lack of fuel. Maddoc basked in the unnatural warmth for a moment, his exhausted bones drinking in the heat, then he forced himself to turn north and start walking.
*
Kander reached out with one gloved hand, picked up a handful of snow, and slipped it into his mouth. He did this not out of thirst, but to chill his breath and keep it from fogging as it passed by his lips, giving away his position to anyone who happened to be looking in his direction. The sun had gone down, tinging the tundra a dark blue, and he suspected the Dwarr was still several miles to the south.
Can’t be too careful with this one, though.
Kander thought back to how they’d laid in wait on the road, eager to repay the Dwarr’s carelessness by catching him in an ambush. A dozen men with crossbows—himself included—had hidden in the trees, while ten more fanned out, just in case their prey veered off the road and took an alternate route. Somehow, though, the Dwarr surprised all of them, cutting two men’s throats and using his axe to cleave the skull of a third before Kander and the others even realized he was there. They’d wheeled to face him, of course, but the Dwarr managed to lose them in the forest.
That might have been the end of it, but instead of fleeing, the Dwarr did the unthinkable: he hunted them instead. One of Kander’s men took a knife in the back while he stooped behind a tree to relieve himself. Two more bent to drink from a stream—only for the Dwarr to rise out of the water, axe swinging.
After that, though, the Dwarr’s fortune turned. He regained a horse he’d apparently hidden in the forest, only for Kander’s men to shoot it out from under him. Another bolt shattered a shield the Dwarr had hanging on his back, knocking him to the ground in the process. Though he’d managed to run before they could catch him, Kander’s men had spread out, successfully preventing the Dwarr from seeking sanctuary in nearby towns, steadily herding him north onto the tundra.
Just a matter of time now. Kander slipped off his glove and tapped the hilt of his longsword with one cracked, dirty fingernail. The sound signaled his men to crouch low behind a snowy hill while Kander went on alone to scout. His sharp eyes scanned the dark horizon as he slipped his glove back on. For a hundred paces, he saw nothing but frigid wasteland. He feared that the Dwarr might have given up fleeing north and simply tried to head south again. But Kander had left half-a-dozen men behind, fanned out just south of the Wintersea, ready to fill the Dwarr with crossbow bolts if he tried to return the way he’d come. There was no way the Dwarr could know that Kander had tirelessly marched most of his men north so that they could catch their prey in a pincer move.
No, he’s still out there, alone on the ice, unsure what to do next. Then, Kander spotted a faint wisp of unnatural fire in the distance and smiled. “Mistake,” he whispered. The Dwarr had proven himself so far to be a cunning adversary. Clearly, though, he was so tired and cold that he’d given in and built a fire. Unless it’s a trap…
Kander considered this, then shook his head. Regrettably, the Dwarr was alone. What manner of trap could one man set against so many heavily armed opponents, out on the open Wintersea where the only shelter was an occasional evergreen or a low hill that was little more than a snowbank? Kander considered leaving his men behind and going on alone to contend with the Dwarr. After all, he’d so far been denied the pleasure of crossing steel with him, but he had the feeling that—as formidable as he was—the Dwarr was no match for him. Besides, it irked him that the Dwarr had managed to slay so many of his men, and he bristled at the thought of sharing his revenge with anyone else.
Then he had a peculiar thought: tonight was Hammer’s Eve, a sacred time for the Dwarrs. Kander knew little about the holiday, but remembered hearing that all Dwarrs were expected to give presents to their loved ones, symbolizing the sanctity of life. Kander touched his sword-hilt again. I have just the present for you, Dwarr. And I’ll even let you keep your eyes open as I hand it to you.
Kander traveled a little farther in the direction of the distant fire. Then, a scream froze him in his tracks. The cry came from behind him. Kander whirled about, reflexively sinking into a crouch even as he unslung his crossbow and reached for a bolt. He stuck his foot in the stirrup and spanned the crossbow—no easy task, given that he could hardly feel his toes—and fit a bolt, careful to avoid touching its tip. Meanwhile, his eyes scanned the area from whence he’d come.
For a moment, he saw nothing. Then, a faint smear of purple flame illuminated the horizon. Another scream. Equal parts pleasure and panic made Kander smile. “About time.” He started north again, crouching so low that he was practically moving on all fours.
His men shouted again, their cries of alarm carried by the icy night air. Kander saw another purple glare on the horizon, accompanied this time by the distinctive snap of firing crossbows. He wondered if his men had finally struck the sorcerer. He could not say whether he hoped they’d succeeded in killing him without his help, but another chorus of screams rendered the question moot.
Kander scowled. This one’s more powerful than the rest. He thought of the other sorcerers he and his men had hunted over the past few years. They’d been dangerous, sure, but this one was something special. Kander realized that the six men he’d left to the south were probably already dead. Then he considered his original plan. He had the grim realization that had he actually met the sorcerer on the open road, alongside his Dwarrish lover as intended, Kander and his fellow Sons of Maelmohr would probably have been burnt to a crisp.
But this way, he’ll exhaust himself killing the others. He’ll never even see me creeping up behind him. Kander quickened his pace. He imagined the sorcerer moving quietly in the icy dark, circling wide to surprise the Sons of Maelmohr. Probably he’d attacked their flanks first—striking, disappearing, drawing cover from the occasional snowbanks that dotted the tundra. Even so, it seemed unlikely that the sorcerer could have survived more than a few seconds.
As though in answer, the wind filled his nostrils with the musk of burnt flesh.
Kander remembered hearing that sorcerers of exceptional power also had the ability to invade other men’s minds. He imagined the sorcerer casting his mind into the skulls of his men, making them think they saw and heard things that were not there, causing them to face the wrong direction or fire their crossbows into the empty darkness. A fresh surge of anger made Kander straighten and break into a run, trading stealth for speed.
A moment later, he crested the snowbank, sank to one knee, and raised his crossbow to eye level, scanning the battlefield for something to shoot. Before him lay a broad swath of ash-stained snow. Here and there, the charred remains of men’s bodies lay in ghastly tangles, metal and cloth and flesh all melted and fused together. A few weapons gleamed in the snow. He listened but heard nothing. Then he spotted movement.
Kander aimed his crossbow and nearly fired before he recognized one of his own men—apparently, the last one left alive. He’d been badly burned, but managed to push himself back onto his feet without so much as a whimper, using his sword as a crutch. The man reeled, caught his balance, and looked about for his would-be killer. Kander looked, too, but saw nothing apart from snow and darkness.
Then, the man spotted Kander. Before the man could call out, Kander lowered one hand from his crossbow and pressed a finger against his lips, indicating the need for silence. The man nodded. Kander took a deep breath and held it, sighting down the stock of his crossbow again. Second after agonizing second, he waited. Meanwhile, his last man turned this way and that, the poisoned blade of his sword stretched out before him, in search of the sorcerer.
Kander spotted him first.
The sorcerer seemed to melt out of thin air: a tall, blond man in a white cloak. Though the cloak had already been slashed in several places, the sorcerer himself appeared unharmed. Still, Kander noted the tightness in his moonlit expression, the exhaustion weighing down his shoulders. Kander aimed his crossbow and waited, making no effort to warn his last man.
In an impressive display of stealth, the sorcerer crossed the charred battlefield until he stood right behind the swordsman. Then, he simply stretched out one hand and touched the back of the man’s head. A bright gout of wytchfire roiled from the sorcerer’s fingertips, and it was over.
As the last man sank to the tundra, the sorcerer sank, too. Kander watched the sorcerer’s shoulders heave as he gasped for breath. Kander smiled. What’s the matter? Did you tire yourself out? He braced his crossbow below his chin, pointed the poison-smeared tip of his bolt between the sorcerer’s shoulder blades, and tightened his fingers around the trigger. Then he heard a crunching sound right behind him.
“Damn.”
Kander whirled but before he could fire, the Dwarr’s axe struck the lathe of his crossbow, cleaving it in two. Kander dropped the pieces, stepped back, and drew his sword. The Dwarr followed. Kander dodged one swing and stabbed at the Dwarr’s shoulder. With surprising speed, the Dwarr parried. Kander thrust for the Dwarr’s face next. The Dwarr swept his head to one side, dodging the blow but sacrificing a clear view of his opponent in the process.
“Mistake,” Kander said, and stuck the tip of his sword in the Dwarr’s boot.
Cursing in his own tongue, the Dwarr rang his axe against Kander’s longsword with such force that Kander stumbled backward, his arm shaking. Still, he grinned. “You’re already dead, Dwarr. Poison.” He held up his longsword, letting moonlight illuminate the green oil smeared onto the steel.
The Dwarr frowned down at the blood welling from the hole in his boot. He grunted. Then, as though he hadn’t even been injured, he charged. Kander danced out of the way, sword swinging. The Dwarr followed, a little slower this time.
Kander laughed mockingly. I could wait. But where’s the fun in that? He switched his sword to his left hand, used his right to draw his stiletto, and threw it.
Predictably, the Dwarr used his axe to bat the stiletto out of the air. That gave Kander another opening. The plan was to bury his sword in the Dwarr’s gut, twist it, and step back. But with a speed that meant he hadn’t been quite as surprised as Kander thought, the Dwarr used the haft of his axe like a quarterstaff and parried Kander’s blade. Then the Dwarr threw himself sideways, driving his shoulder into Kander’s chin. Kander twisted, stepped back, and swung blind. His sword passed through empty air—a moment before he felt steel rend his ankle, barely half an inch below the protection of his chainmail.
Kander collapsed onto the tundra, biting back a scream. He swung blind again. This time, the Dwarr sidestepped and disarmed him, nearly taking off Kander’s hand in the process. Despite the pain, Kander laughed again. “Go ahead. You’re still going to die. Poison. I told you.”
“Good thing I have some experience with poison,” said a voice.
Kander looked up. The sorcerer had joined them, the pupils of his eyes matching the snow all around them. The sorcerer took the Dwarr’s arm. The two embraced, then kissed. Kander’s stomach turned.
“You woke up quicker than I thought,” the sorcerer said.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” the Dwarr said. With the sorcerer’s help, he sank onto the ground and pulled off his boot. The Dwarr’s foot was a bloody mess. “Sure you have the strength for this?” Even as he spoke, the Dwarr’s whole body began to shake, his face impossibly pale.
“I’ll manage,” the sorcerer said. He cast a hateful glance at Kander, then knelt beside his injured lover and pressed his hands over the wound. “I take it that was a lie about the new king of Ivairia. They were never after him, were they?”
“No,” the Dwarr said. “They were after you. Surprise.”
“And when were you going to tell me?”
“Preferably after they were all dead. Didn’t want to worry you.” The Dwarr swooned, his face paler than ever. “Now aren’t you glad you almost stayed home?”
The sorcerer did not answer. A purple glow enveloped his body, spilling over onto the Dwarr. The latter jerked, as though touched by hot iron, then relaxed. The color slowly returned to his face. Meanwhile, the purple glow faded and the sorcerer’s head drooped, causing his golden hair to hang in his eyes.
Kander stared for a moment at the two men, both of whom seemed to be asleep, then eyed his longsword. It lay just a few feet beyond his reach, its bare blade dusted with snow. Gritting his teeth to keep from crying out, Kander crawled toward it, inch after painful inch. But he’d hardly touched the pommel when the sorcerer looked up.
“I suppose we should keep you alive,” the sorcerer said heavily. “Turn you over to be interrogated. Pincers, white-hot irons, the whole bit. Find out how many more are out there, how many more like you.”
“Thousands,” Kander spat. He withdrew his medallion and kissed it. “We fill every crack, every shadow. You’ll never catch us all. We’ll find every last one of your kind and—” Kander jerked. He had the odd feeling that something had invaded his mind, rifling through his thoughts and memories: an unwelcome presence that he was far too weak to drive out. He trembled. A moment later, the feeling passed.
“Liar,” the sorcerer said. He rose and curled his hands into fists. Purple flames leaked from between his fingers, writhing like living things. “Goodbye, friend. Happy Hammer’s Eve, if you celebrate it.” The sorcerer lifted both hands.
Then, Kander knew no more.
©March 2021, Michael Meyerhofer
Michael Meyerhofer is an active member of the SFWA whose work has appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, Analog, Orson Scott Card’s InterGalactic Medicine Show, Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, Strange Horizons, and other journals. He is also the author of the Dragonkin Trilogy, the Godsfall Trilogy, and several books of poetry. For more info and an embarrassing childhood photo, visit troublewithhammers.com.