Rides a Dread Legion Free with Bonus Material Read online

  Alystan was newly wed, and as he rode through the dark pathways of the Green Heart, he thought of his young wife, staying with his own mother and father as they broke winter camp down near Bordon and prepared to move up into the mountains for spring and summer. They had spoken of having their own child someday, and while they had yet to conceive one, Alystan now felt the fear that he might never see that child should his worst suspicions prove true.

  The Ranger rode through the first day without incident, as the patrols from Carse eastward had kept the Kings Road clear of bandits and other troublemakers. He had seen game sign, bear and elk, so he knew few hunters were nearby.

  In years past, the Moredhel, the Brotherhood of the Dark Path, inhabited these woods and up into the Grey Tower Mountains, and such a ride would have been suicide without a company of soldiers to escort him. Now times were more peaceful and the worst a lone traveler might face was a small band of poachers or the occasional outlaw. Still, goblins roamed the Green Heart from time to time, and more than three or four could prove dangerous to a solitary rider.

  Alystan made a cold camp the first night, not wishing to draw attention to his presence with a fire. He staked out his horse and moved some distance away so should the animal draw unwanted attention, he would not be close by. He risked losing the horse that way but gained the advantage of not being surprised in the night.

  The night passed without incident.

  Alystan quickly saddled his horse after inspecting it to ensure it was sound. The animal was one of the best the garrison at Carse had to offer, a solid gelding, well-trained and fit. Not the fastest mount available, but one capable of long journeys at good pace. With luck he would reach the dwarven stronghold at Caldara within three more days. He mounted and returned to the road.

  Three days later a nearly exhausted rider and horse approached a gap in the mountains, across which a large wooden palisade had been erected. Two dwarves stood on either side of the road, dutifully taking their turn at watch, though for years it had hardly been necessary. They waved him through, recognizing him from previous visits, and Alystan entered Caldara.

  The village was lovely in the morning light, nestled in a cozy valley with trails leading up to the high alpine meadows that were used for summer grazing, and down to lower valleys where the cattle and sheep were kept during the winter. Alystan knew that to the east were well-tended fields and a small stand of apple trees in an orchard that marked the eastern boundary of the holding.

  The buildings were all of a kind, heavy thatched roofs atop wooden structures plastered over to keep out winters cold. All were pristine white and shined in the morning sun, save the massive longhouse that dominated the community. Here lived the King and his retainers, as well as a large part of the local population on any given day. The longhouse was the hub of dwarven activity and on any given night any member of the community might be found sleeping on the floor of the great room before the huge fire as much as he would be back in his own bed. Unlike the plastered walls, this building had been constructed in the old way: huge boles of trees stacked in cradles, forming outer walls that would defy both the elements and attacking enemies.

  The floors were stone upon the earth, flattened and smoothed so one could barely feel the joints between them when walking over them. But they were as impenetrable by sappers digging up from below as the walls were by those above the ground. The dwarves were miners and understood the uses of tunnels in war-craft as well as in mining.

  Alystan pulled up before the entrance to the longhouse and dismounted. He unsaddled his gelding, and put the saddle over the hitching log, then quickly wiped down the animal with a rag from his saddle bags. It would have to do until he took it to the stables and tended to it. Dwarves were not horsemen, and the horses they did keep were draft animals, all of whom would be out in the fields this time of day, pulling plows as the dwarves readied the ground for the spring planting.

  As he finished up, a dwarf emerged from the building. Alystan of Natal! he said with pleasure. What brings you our way?

  I come to see your grandfather, Hogni. Is he inside?

  The young dwarfs grin split his long black beard. The dwarves were small compared to humans, but still broad of shoulders and powerful of frame, averaging a little over five feet in height. Hogni was especially tall for his race, nearing five inches over five feet. He had a merry light in his eye as he said, Grandfather refuses to take his rank seriously, as always. He says hes new to this King business as its only been a little over a hundred years or so.

  Hes down in the fields plowing. Come along, Ill take you there.

  As he moved away, he waved over a dwarven boy and said, Toddy, take that horse to Grandfathers stable and see to him, will you?

  Alystan smiled as he took his longbow off his shoulder and returned it to the familiar grip of his left hand. His expression was dubious, as the boy barely reached three feet in height, topped with a shock of red-blond hair and an apple-cheeked grin, but if Hogni was confident in his ability to somehow reach the geldings withers and clean him off, he wasnt going to argue. The horse had rendered stout service and deserved to be treated well. Only the urgency of his news kept him from properly tending to the mount before seeing the King.

  They quickly made their way through the village to the eastern fields where a half-dozen draft horses pulled plows. Crossing carefully over the newly plowed rows, they approached a dwarf with a completely grey head of hair and beard. He was perspiring heavily as he wrestled the plows iron blade through soil packed hard by a winters weight of snow and the mornings frost. The horses, like their masters, were powerful but diminutive, looking like broad-chested ponies as much as true horses. Yet Alystan knew they were a special breed of true horse, used for this work by the dwarves for centuries.

  Dolgan, King of the Dwarves and Warleader of Caldara, reined in the gelding who pulled his plow, and waved a greeting. Alystan of Natal! Well met!

  Greetings, King Dolgan. Have you no liegemen to plow your fields?

  I do, but theyre busy plowing their own at the moment, and its in my nature to wish it done right the first time. He took a well-worn long briar pipe out of his pocket and quickly produced a contraption of flint and steel, a clever device fetched up from the Free Cities in trade. A big spark ignited the tobac in the pipe, and Dolgan took a long pull. He made a face and said, This is a useful enough gadget, but that first taste of burning flint I can do without. He puffed again, looked contented, and asked, What brings you to Caldara, Alystan?

  Alystan held his bow with the tip on the ground, a habit Dolgan knew meant the Ranger was being thoughtful at choosing his words. The gesture always gained him a moment to think. I bring word of something strange, and troubling. I seek your wisdom and counsel.

  Well, that sounds serious enough. He tossed the reins to Hogni and said, Finish up here boy, and then go help your father. Ill be in the longhouse with our guest.

  Yes, Grandfather, said the young dwarf with a resigned smile. The King might like to see the plowing done right the first time, but he also enjoyed chatting with travelers in the longhouse over a flagon of ale. The youth glanced upward and smiled. It was barely two hours past breakfast, hardly the time his mother would approve of her father-in-law tapping the ale keg, despite his being King. Putting the reins over his shoulders, Hogni flipped them and shouted, Ha! The horse threw one impatient glance backward, as if asking if the young dwarf was really serious and did he have to return to his labors; another flick of the reins told the animal it was indeed time, so he reluctantly returned to dragging the plow through the rich mountain soil.

  Dolgan listened carefully as Alystan finished his narrative. The old dwarf was silent for a very long time, then said, This is troubling news.

  You recognize this newcomer? asked the Ranger, before taking a long pull on the marvelous dwarven ale the Kings less than pleased daughter-in-law provided. She seemed irritated to the point of saying something, but held her silence before a stranger.


  Dolgan shook his head. No, though I would not have recognized the so-called mad elves from north of the Teeth of the World before they ventured down to Elvendar. He turned and shouted, Amyna!

  Hognis mother appeared a moment later and said, Yes, Father?

  Send Toddy to find Malachi. Have him join us here, please?

  She nodded once and departed.

  Dolgan said, Malachi is the oldest among us. He chuckled. He was old when I was a boy and Im nearing three hundred years, myself.

  Alystans expression was barely held in check. He knew the dwarves to be a long-lived race, like the elves, but he had no idea they lived that long, or stayed as robust as they apparently did. Whatever consternation he had glimpsed in the Dwarf King vanished with the boy. The old dwarf seemed content to smoke his pipe, drink his morning ale, and chat of inconsequential matters, how fared his human acquaintances along the Far Coast and in the Free Cities, what news from Krondor, or farther. It was clear to the Ranger than Dolgan was keenly interested in matters outside his own small demesne, which, given the dwarves history, was understandable.

  An independent people, the dwarves nevertheless found their fortunes tied to those of the surrounding humans and, to a lesser degree, the elves to the north. Twice in the last hundred years, war had visited the west, first the Tsurani invaders in the very valley where Alystan had seen the stranger, and later by the armies of the Emerald Queen, from a land across the sea. The second struggle had involved the dwarves indirectly, but the repercussions had echoed through the land for a long time. Trade had been reduced to a trickle for years, the west nearly forgotten by the Kingdom for a decade, and banditry and piracy had risen. Things were nearly back to the way they had been before the coming of the Tsurani, Alystans grandfather claimed; in fact, he insisted it was better, as the dark elves no longer hunted the Green Heart or the Grey Towers. Given the history of bloody warfare between the Rangers and the Moredhel, Alystan was inclined to grant his grandfathers view had merit.

  Time passed, but Alystan was like all Rangers, possessing patience born of generations of woodcraft and hunting. A fidgeting hunter was a hungry one, his father had told him many years before, on his first hunt.

  At last the boy Toddy returned, quietly and slowly escorting the oldest being the Ranger had ever encountered. The dwarf moved slowly, his steps tiny, as if he feared losing his balance. He appeared shrunken with age, so he was barely a head taller than the boy, and slight of frame. In contrast to the robust stature of the other dwarves the Ranger knew, this was startling. His skin was parchment-white and almost translucent, so the veins of his hands stood out over knuckles swollen with years of inflammation. He used a cane, and the boy held him firmly by his left arm. His hair receded, and fell to his shoulders, and whatever color may have once graced that ancient pate had fled, leaving snow-white wisps. Cheeks sunken with age were marked with small lesions and sores, and Alystan knew this was a being at the end of his days.

  The old dwarf looked about the room, and the Ranger realized either he was blind or his vision so poor he might as well be sightless. He sat and those in the room remained silent.

  Then he spoke. So, what reason have you to rouse an old man from his nap? he demanded. His voice was surprisingly strong and deep for so frail a figure.

  Dolgan said, Malachi, this is Alystan of the Free Cities.

  I can see hes a Ranger, Dolgan, said the old man, and Alystan reassessed his judgment on Malachis eyesight. Well, you have something to say, else they wouldnt have required me to come here, so say it, instructed the ancient dwarf.

  Alystan retold the tale of the traveler. Malachi said nothing the entire time, but he did lean forward slightly, as if paying closer attention, when the Ranger began describing the creatures true appearance.

  When Alystan was finished, Malachi leaned back and let his chin drop, as if thinking. The room remained silent for several minutes, then the ancient dwarf said, Its an old tale, told by my grandfathers grandfather, from the time of the Crossing.

  Dolgan said nothing, but he glanced around the room at the other dwarves who had gathered there while Alystan had spoken. There were now perhaps twenty dwarves, most of whom Alystan recognized as being part of the Kings Meet, Dolgans council of advisors.

  Malachi paused, then said, At the end of my days I am, but I remember this tale as if it were told to me yesterday.

  My first raid was against the dark elves to the north, who had been troubling our herds in the lower meadows, when calving was under way. We had chased off a band and my fatherhe pointed at Dolganand your father, though he had not the title of King, but Warleader, decided we needed to carry chastisement to the miscreants and let them know there would be no stealing of calves from the dwarves of Caldara! He took a breath, and said, We followed the thieves through two days, and the night we camped before the raid, my father told me a story told him by his grandfather.

  He said before the Gods warred, dwarves lived on a distant world, and fought long and hard against the great goblin tribes, Lea Orcha, the Orcs, the great wryms, like our dragons, but stupid, yet cunning. They defended their crops and herds from gryphon and manticore and other creatures of myth. Father spoke of ancient legends, of great heroes and deeds, lost to even the Lorekeepers, for this was before the Crossing.

  Alystan said, The Crossing?

  The old dwarf nodded. A madness consumed our world, a war visited upon us by beings of power beyond even our most puissant Lorekeepers art. We know them as Dragon Lords.

  The Valheru, said Dolgan, thinking of his time spent with Lord Tomas, during the war against the Tsurani. He had learned much since then of Valheru lore, while he watched the boy from Crydee grow into a being of unimaginable power; but there was far more untold, he knew.

  Aye, said Malachi. So the elves call their former masters. My father told me it was the very masters of this world who drove us here, by design or chance no one knows.

  But flee the home world we did. Great tears in the heavens above and earth below opened, swallowing up those nearby. Some, it is said, went to other worlds, by chance and happenstance, whim of the gods, or luck. But most of us hunkered down and resisted the forces of chaos on all sides.

  There were races of men on our home world, along with the Great Goblins and our people. It was they, these masters of magic, who constructed bridges to flee from the destruction visited upon us during the Chaos Wars.

  Much was lost, but this much remained: that in the ancient times many others ranged across these lands, kin to those we chased, but not those in Elvandar, with whom we were at peace. He told a tale of a time when the wars on the ancient birth-world forced dwarves, humans, even the magic-users of the Dena Orcha

  Orcs! spat Dolgan, as if the very word was an insult.

  The Ranger looked at the old man.

  Dena Orcha in the old tongue, said Malachi. The true enemy of our blood. The Great Goblins. None live on this world.

  But they live in our memory, said the Dwarf King.

  Malachi waved away the comment. All the magic-users of many races banded together to save worlds in the time of the Mad Gods and raging Dragon Riders. They formed the Golden Bridge and many of our ancestors came to Midkemia.

  But there were already living here the elves and some others, the serpent men and the tiger men, and we were met with war and magic.

  Fighting on both sides of the Golden Bridge went on for a time without time, for the very nature of the universe was twisted and fluid.

  Then it was over, said the ancient dwarf quietly. In days after the Crossing, but before the line of Kings was named, in the dim mists of memory, this was told by the elves to our ancestors. Many of their people fled this world as we had fled our own, and to the elves they would be known as the Lost Elves.

  The old dwarf sat silently for a minute and said, I can only guess, but it may be one such as that has returned to this world, for never have I heard of such a one before. Youd best ask the elves, for this much I kno
w: of elven magic many things can be said, but nothing I have heard in my long life speaks of illusion as guise. He said, If I may leave, King?

  His tone left no doubt the request was only for form, as he turned and started to get up as the King waved permission.

  As the old man was about to leave, Dolgan said, Malachi, one question. Why did my father not speak of this to me?

  Malachi shrugged. You would have to be able to ask him. Your father was a quiet, thoughtful leader. He spoke very little. Dolgan nodded. My father liked to tell stories. Again Dolgan nodded.

  I remember one more thing, said Malachi. Three great bridges were built, on our birth world, or so my father said his grandfather told him. Two were built by humans and dwarves, and one by the Orcs. One bridge led to the Tsurani world, or so I believe from what we learned from those Tsurani who came to our world. If any of our people crossed, no memory of them remains with the Tsurani. The other came here, and it was over that bridge that humans and dwarves came to Midkemia.

  The Orc bridge went to another world, and from the time of the Chaos Wars we have no longer been plagued by that ancient hate. Some humans and dwarves crossed with them, it is said. Perhaps, posed the old dwarf, those Lost Elves built their own bridge to escape their masters? Without waiting for an answer, Malachi left the hall.

  Dolgan and the others remained silent for a long while, then Dolgan said, What if the Lost Elves built their own bridge to escape their masters, indeed.

  But now one returns, said Alystan.

  Apparently, said Dolgan.

  Know this, welder of Tholins hammer, said a voice from behind. Dolgan and the others turned to see Malachi returned from the hallway. One last thing, he added, pointing a frail finger at the Dwarf King. It was your ancestor who led our people here, making these mountains our home. It was his brothers who led other bands to Stone Mountain and Dorgin. But our people were once as numerous as the leaves on trees. Where one dwarf crossed the bridge from our home world, five remained to fight the madness that came to destroy our home.