“All the more reason we need to get to our pailslopper and persuade her to tell the king what she knows,” Darann said. She looked pointedly at her younger brother, who was straining at the oars. “Can’t you row any faster?”
Nayfal mounted his ferr’ell after the liveryman had saddled the beast and had carefully affixed the steel muzzle that prevented the partially savage creature from snapping back at its rider. The lord had learned through painful experience that no ferr’ell was to be trusted. Still, he was the only dwarven noble who had ever learned to ride one of the savage creatures, and at a time like this he was determined that his men would see him in the saddle, where he belonged.
He clutched the reins and spurred the animal forward, lurching in the saddle and wishing for at least the thousandth time that a ferr’ell had a more regular gait. Instead, the beast caused him to bob back and forth on the undulating back. Some of the most veteran Rockriders eventually learned to mimic this motion, growing naturally comfortable in the saddle, but such proficiency required many long miles of riding. As a powerful lord, he didn’t have time for such diversions. Besides, he didn’t trust the ’riders, most of whom had been recruited and trained by Karkald. Fortunately, the light cavalry and their savage steeds had become virtually obsolete in the days of goblin control.
Still, he relished the awe in the faces of Axial’s dwarves as he trotted swiftly through the city streets. Youngsters gawked on the sidewalks, while women scurried out of his way and men stared admiringly at the dashing figure. The sleek animal held its head high, ears pricked upward and whiskers twitching, suitably impressive as it loped down the city street. Nayfal noted with pleasure that he still drew attention wherever he went.
He made his way down the Avenue of Metal, the wide boulevard leading toward the harbor. The ghetto lay before him to the right, and as he approached he was pleased to hear the clash of arms and the cries of frightened goblins rising from beyond the high wall. There was a company of city guardsmen standing at ease just outside the first gate, and these dwarves gathered around as he approached.
One brave sergeant even took the reins to keep the ferr’ell from bobbing restively. The toothy jaws snapped, and the dwarf clapped it across the snout with his gauntleted fist. Growling, the steed stood still.
“Lord Nayfal! The raid is progressing well,” reported the leader, a gray-bearded veteran with a silver-lined helmet. “The goblins are running like sheep. We’ve already cleared out the blocks against the Metal Wall.”
“Good. I expected nothing less, of course. But good.”
“Only thing is, the gobs are getting kind of thick in the middle plazas now. We’re getting ’em packed in tight, but we was wondering… what to do with ’em now.”
“There’s no choice. You’ll have to kill them, especially the males-though if a wench raises a stick to you, well, cut her down as well.”
The captain’s eyes widened momentarily, but then he recovered and nodded tentatively. “You’re wanting them butchered, then… all the males?” He shifted his balance from one foot to the other, an act of nervousness that annoyed the lord. “Can I be having that order in writing then, my lord?” the warrior had the temerity to ask.
“You have witnesses; the order comes from the king himself,” snapped Nayfal. “And he, as well as I, expect it to be carried out.”
“Er, of course, my lord. Just that, well, that’s a lot of killing… a lot of blood will run.”
“Am I to assume that you don’t have the stomach for this work, Captain? Because I assure you, I know plenty of officers who are more than willing to proceed.”
“Please, lord, I meant no disrespect! I’ve always been one who follows his orders, to the letter; dots the i’s and crosses the t’s, I do. Just wanted clarification, which yer lordship was gracious enough to supply.”
“Then get going!” demanded Nayfal. “There’s a lot of work to do in there!”
He allowed himself a tight smile of satisfaction as the company of dwarves, swords drawn, tromped through the gate and started looking for goblins. The smile remained as he spurred the ferr’ell along, ready to pass the orders along to the armored companies waiting outside of each of the ghetto’s gates.
“This one has a knife!” came the cry of the dwarven watch sergeant, ringing through the alley with a sound that, to Hiyram, sounded like a full bray of alarm. The goblin pulled back his weapon in horror, all but gagging as he saw the red smear on the keen blade. He wanted to stop, to explain that he was only defending himself, but that impulse was overwhelmed by the pressing urgency to escape, to survive.
Desperately Hiyram squirmed in the grip of the burly guard. Other dwarves closed in, for now they had him surrounded. The goblin hoped that Spadrool had made his escape and had led the females and youngsters to some semblance of safety. Perhaps the drainage tunnels, after all, might provide escape. At the same time he despaired: safety? Where was that? What could they possibly do against these numbers, this brutal and organized intent?
For himself, he would fight. He had killed before, but never had he slain a Seer dwarf, and never had the sheen of blood on his blade looked so gruesome or caused him such anguish as it did now. Now the knowledge was heartbreaking, for he had killed one of Karkald’s people, the dwarves who had been his friends for hundreds of years.
“Forgive me, Lady,” he whispered again, closing his eyes against the force of his guilt.
But the guards were closing in, a ring tightening around him, menacing and cursing, weapons reaching out to do him harm. He had no choice: he stabbed again, slashing at the arm of the guard holding him. The keen steel sliced through gauntlet, skin, and tendon, drawing a scream of pain from the stricken dwarf.
“The bastard cut me! Kill him!”
In the next instant Hiyram felt the grip relax, and the goblin spun free. More dwarves lunged, but he threw himself flat on the ground, scuttling with two quick pounces between sturdy legs and iron-shod boots-though one kick thumped painfully into his knee.
But he was through the ring of guards! Bouncing to his feet, he sprinted away, ignoring the pain that jabbed through his thigh with each step on the bruised knee. He ran frantically but not blindly, heading down the twisting alley, his wide eyes perceiving the barrels stacked near the wall, the broken crate with the pieces scattered in his path. With a single leap he flew over the obstacle, his feet slapping against wet stone as he landed.
He heard the crashing of armor and tin as the pursuing dwarves tripped on the crumbled box. In the next instant he was around a corner-a dead end in the alley! But there was hope in that wall of loose masonry, and a second later he was leaping up the rickety framework on the side of an ancient building. His hand slipped on a slick stone, but he caught himself with two fingertips, holding himself long enough that his feet could find purchase and kick his body upward. In another second he was sprawled on the roof, lying flat, listening.
The first thing he heard was the pounding of his own heart. Quickly he discerned other sounds: the noises of fear and flight that were spreading through the terrorized goblin community, and the heavy march of the dwarven columns. They must have come through the wall in at least six or eight places, he estimated. How in the world could the goblins defend themselves when they had barely that many true weapons among them? Not to mention that malnutrition had been weakening his people for decades, leaving many of them barely strong enough to stand, much less fight! Why had the dwarves come now? What would his people do besides despair and then die?
“What would Karkald do?” the goblin muttered to himself soundlessly. He had campaigned with that venerable dwarf for centuries, and Karkald had always seemed to have-or be able to make-a plan.
The answer to his question came to Hiyram with surprising clarity. First Karkald would get organized, would try to learn what kind of assets he had, and what kind of challenges he faced. Of course!
Immediately the goblin felt better. He rose to a crouch and crept to the edge of the roof, looking down to where a dozen dwarves were poking through the rubble in the alley, still searching for the goblin fugitive. They turned over the barrels, kicking and cursing as they searched. Several chopped their blades downward, shattered the containers with a force that would certainly have killed him if Hiyram had been hiding within.
Now the goblin was not so much afraid as angry. He looked around, found a wall of loose masonry at the crest of the building, and took several heavy stones in his hands. Then he went back to the edge over the alley, took careful aim, and threw the first stone. In quick succession he tossed another and snatched up the rest, pitching five heavy missiles down onto the searching dwarves.
“Ouch! Hey, he’s up there! Blind-blast it!” came the shouts as the rough-edged stones plunged downward. Hiyram wasn’t worried about immediate pursuit-the dwarves would never make it up the wall he had climbed-and he would be long gone by the time they found another way onto the rooftop.
Organize, learn, prepare… all good plans, as though Karkald himself was here, making suggestions. They seemed to give Hiyram wings as he leapt across the rooftops, making his way toward the heart of the ghetto.
T HE spotlights played across the water as the Seer dwarves in the watchtowers wielded their coolfyre
