Delver Magic II: Throne of Vengeance by Jeff Inlo (interesting books to read txt) 📕
Hern finished his piece. He withdrew himself a pace from Jon and looked to the ground. He closed his eyes as he waited for Jon's response.
The space which Hern allowed now isolated the prince. Jon felt as if a moat now surrounded him. His shoulders went limp. He spoke, not with resolve, but with grudging acceptance. "It shall be as you say. I will take the throne."
Hern, though grateful for these words, spoke now with a soft and unchallenging voice, a proper tone for a subordinate addressing a king. "Dunop thanks you, and I thank you."
"I need your help, not your thanks," Jon
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“How close to the surface?”
“Not very. Do you think it’s goblins?”
“Doubtful.”
Ryson thought of the magic, how when it was first released from the sphere it mutated and created terrible monsters. Anything at all could be waiting down there preparing to attack. He posed the possibility in one word to Holli.
“Magic?”
“I sense nothing.”
“Wait, I hear something. Voices. They’re coming up.”
“Swords!” Holli ordered and all three drew their weapons.
Ryson’s sword, the Sword of Decree, revealed its enchantment as it magnified the dying sunlight. The glow drenched the sand before them. The white sand sparkled as it again began to shift, this time with far greater force, and the increased light served to magnify the disturbance. Large amounts of sand swirled downward, as if falling through an hour glass. A crater formed as more and more of the sand began to fall away into some unseen hole.
Ryson looked deep into the heart of the gyrating disorder. Like a swirling whirlpool, the sand churned faster as it neared the center of the crater. The delver could only wonder as to how much sand would disappear into this ever-widening chasm.
In a mere instant, Ryson saw that it was not natural forces that had opened the hole, but the greatest miners in all the land. The whirlpool effect was broken as a growling dwarf shattered the surface.
Sand sailed in every direction even as it continued to spill downward into an ever widening expanse. The first dwarf jumped clear, then another, and another. They bustled up from the sand like angry ants ready for war. Armored chest plates sparkled as richly as the desert sand. Reinforced with jewels, this armor could not be cut by elf swords. Though prepared to strike, for their axes were in their stout, firm hands, the first dwarves to appear revealed surprise in seeing the elves and the delver.
Other dwarves surfaced. Ten in number now stood upon the surface of the sand. They wore goggles made of tinted gems to protect their vision from the desert light, but their eyes widened at the unexpected sight of the elves.
The shock spread. Lief fumbled with his words. “What is going on here?”
The dwarves said nothing. They had expected to attack algors. They crouched in battle readiness, but they held their position.
Holli saw the situation clearly. She held tight to her sword, but dropped it from its ready position. “They thought we were algors. Isn’t that true?”
The dwarves did not feel the need to explain such things to an elf. They might have simply retreated back down their tunnel, had one not voiced a single suspicion.
“Spies.”
“Nonsense,” Holli responded firmly.
The accusing dwarf did not think so. “Why else would they be out here? An alliance with the algors.”
Nothing more was needed. The situation quickly boiled over. The dwarves advanced, considering the three as enemies.
“Fire upon you fools!” Lief admonished the attackers. “You have no cause for this.”
The dwarves ignored him. They broke into three separate groups, each to deal with an individual enemy. Two groups of three set upon Holli and Ryson while a foursome moved to surround Lief. They moved laboriously, struggling with the shifting sand at their feet. They plodded forward without speed or dexterity. Each step was forced, as if each movement had to be considered separately.
Lief and Holli also grappled with the terrain, but not to the same degree. Their bodies were slight, lean and long. They remained able to leap and sidestep, whereas the dwarves sank deep into the soft footing like lead weights. Still, the elves were at ground level and in close quarters, not an enviable position when battling dwarves.
The dwarves took this to heart and believed that their superior numbers and strength would lead them to easy victory despite the shifting sand beneath them. They swung their axes almost wildly. Their short arms allowed only a limited reach and they were unable to connect, but they could see the elves tiring quickly under the heat of the desert. Those that focused on Holli and Lief became near ferocious in their attacks.
For those that attacked the delver, they found quick frustration. The delver moved with ease over the sand, moved with such speed and precision the dwarves were left swinging and grasping at open air. Ryson dodged each attack as if he were a dry leaf in the heart of a tornado. The dwarves soon lost all perspective of direction, and then, all hope.
Ryson would not use his sword upon the dwarves, but he would not let them callously attack him or his friends. He focused his attack on the dwarves’ goggles. In a blur of motion, his agile hand speared toward the face of each attacker. He ripped the protective glasses away and exposed the dwarf eyes to the bright desert sun. With each assault, a dwarf was rendered near helpless as they jammed their eyelids shut to block the burning light that was magnified by his sword.
After blinding those that attacked him, he turned his attention on assisting the elves. He darted across the sand like a hurricane, his gleaming sword a streak of lightning. He continued his assault, relieving each dwarf of his goggles.
The dwarves could not fight him. With or without their glasses, they could not see him. They could not stop him. Their axe blades sliced harmlessly through the air. In the end, the lot of them were left shielding their eyes with their hands and unable to strike.
In frustration, humiliation, one called for an immediate retreat. None argued. They dove for the darkness of the hole without hesitation.
Lief appeared willing to stop them or to follow, but Holli’s command held him.
“Let them go. We can’t stop all of them and prisoners will only slow us.”
Lief’s anger burned. He yelled into the entrance of the tunnel. “Attack us will you? You had no cause. Fire upon you! Fire upon Yave!” He kicked sand into the opening as if to lash out with one last insult.
Ryson looked to Holli. “They’ve already started their attacks,” he stated grimly.
“Hard to know the extent,” she responded simply as if measuring the weight of the dwarf battle party.
“I noticed traces of blood on their axes. They must have already inflicted casualties,” Ryson pointed out.
“Yes, but we do not know how many.”
“One is too many.”
Holli voiced simple logic. “We can’t undo what has already occurred.”
“But we can do all we can to prevent more,” Ryson pressed.
“That’s why we’re here.”
“I was going to ask if you wanted to make camp, but I can’t recommend that now,” Ryson stated almost harshly. “We have to reach the sandstone mountain as soon as possible.”
“I agree.”
Nothing more was said.
Lief gave one last angry glance into the dwarf tunnel. Even now the opening was fading from sight, the sand shifting to cover the hole. It turned first into a depression, then the wind swept away even this last trace. Ryson ignored the change. He moved forward, leading the two elves as quickly as possible to the place where he knew he would find the algors.
Two goblins perched themselves high upon a hilltop due west of Burbon. They watched two figures exit the south gate of the human outpost, two which were quickly joined by a third. One they recognized immediately; the delver. The newcomers were unknown to them. The diminutive monsters waited near breathless, standing motionless in the high grass. They knew of the great senses of the cursed delver. And though he remained a great distance away from their position, they feared the scout might spot them if they made the slightest disturbance. Their interest grew as the delver and his companions crossed the Fuge River. As the range between the two groups increased, one of the goblins found the courage to speak, though in a whisper so as not to alert those they watched.
“They cross the river.”
“I see,” the second muttered in a low guttural voice.
“They move to the trees.”
The second did not respond. It merely watched carefully, its eyes widening. The thick, puffy skin that surrounded its face appeared to bulge. When it saw Lief and Holli leap to the trees, it spat, and finally spoke with even greater harshness.
“He is with elves! We must report this.”
The two goblins turned and descended the hill, trounced through the tall grass with vehemence. The two small creatures cursed as they despised the thick hill brush for its very existence. They moved northwest, away from the river, away from Burbon.
One moaned an unintelligible sound as they moved upon the base of an indistinguishable hill. They stepped up to a hidden path that led to a cave entrance. They moved forward, past a goblin guard, and began descending a long tunnel.
Again, the eyes of the goblins widened. The thick rubbery skin that swelled at their cheeks and around their eyes sagged. The thin wispy gray hair that topped their heads shuddered in the breeze of the tunnel, typifying their own feelings of dread as they entered this godless place.
Lunacy. For two goblins to enter this den willingly, it bordered on something beyond insanity. This was a shag’s lair, the tunnel carved out by the massive, powerful paws of a monster that consumed goblins as appetizers. However, this shag, a giant shag, was now supposedly on their side, an ally under the same commander, and the master now used this sanctuary as its own home.
Each goblin tried to ignore the claw marks on the sides of the tunnel, but their apprehensive glances were impossible to deny. Their steps, labored at first, faltered as they closed upon a hollowed area large enough to fit a small goblin platoon. The smell of death was overpowering as the shag came into view. The monster glared at the goblins, but made no move.
The goblins froze.
The leader of both reclined upon the skin of a river rogue, a testament to the shag’s strength and hunting prowess. A shag that was large enough to prey upon river rogues was indeed a powerful and dangerous creature, a threat to all except the serp that could control it.
The serp stirred from his rest. He had named himself Sazar, after an ancient leader, a chieftain from the legends. Sazar ignored the shag. The goblins could never discern if this was confidence in his own ability to control the monster, or brazen stupidity. He focused upon the goblins. He took long moments to analyze the impish monsters. He looked beyond their fear of the shag, beyond their panic of standing in its lair. He saw their confusion. They had left their post. They would not do so unless they had something important to report. He looked deep into their chaotic, twisted minds. He could almost see what they had seen. One word became very clear to him.
“Elves.” The word sprung from the serp in a soft, soothing tone.
The goblins would not dare to question their master, but they stood in awe at the revelation. Both began to speak almost simultaneously about the incident.
“Yes, elves. They left with the delver, the one that attacked us,” one clamored.
The other continued. “They crossed the river together. They entered the forest.”
Sazar held up a hand ordering silence. The goblins obeyed without dissent and Sazar began to ask quick, pointed questions without interruption.
“Did they appear to explore the lands as they traveled?”
“No.” Both goblins responded instantly.
“Did the elves take to the trees?”
“Yes, that is how we knew they were elves.”
“Was anyone else with them, did any humans follow?”
“Not that we saw. No one came through the gates.”
The serp again searched the minds of the goblins, reached
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