Page 26 of The Rise of the Gods

  Chapter VII:

  The Skatos of Ereg

  For the Glory of Sparka

  Well into the night, when all the others were deep in their dreams, Naj crawled out of his shelter and made his way to the glowing coals of their fire. Fas was there, staring into the fire with a furrowed brow. He threw a stick onto the coals angrily and watched as it flickered aflame and then turned slowly to ash.

  'What need have we of a watch?' Naj said as he drew his boots onto his feet.

  'None, tonight,' Fas answered. 'They do not know how t' avoid the Gargantan,' he said, referring to the Fistmen.

  'Then why watch?' Naj said with a wicked grin.

  'Don't tempt me, Naj'Ereg,' Fas smiled. 'You know I am not glad of father's ways.'

  'Sparka l'live?' Naj asked, knowing that Fas did not think that it would.

  'I hear't the elementals; father hear't them better, and his prophecy was worse than was mine.'

  'Then we l'perish?'

  Fas did not answer; but to Naj his silence was as good as an af­firmation.

  'Then let us make Sparka a name this night,' Naj said.

  Fas shivered for a moment before looking into his brother's eyes. His face looked to him almost like a reflection, for their fea­tures were more similar than many of the other brothers, though Naj had the light brown hair of Ereg and Fas had blonde hair. 'Your spirit be my spirit,' he said fondly.

  Several hours later, when the night was at its darkest, a slight whistling sound pierced the air near the camp of the Fistmen. The night sounds in GarBrusht were such that, at first, the dwarves took little notice. To them it seemed like it was just another of the strange bird calls that seemed to shatter the night's peace from time to time. In the end they discovered the source of the sound, not from the hearing thereof, but when some of their guards were found dead, iron quarrels piercing their throats. Thirteen dwarves lay dead already, and with every whistle a new dwarf fell, silent­ly, to the ground. By the time the Fistmen had worked out the di­rection from which the quarrels flew, Naj - for it was Naj who as­sailed them - had climbed down from his tree and ascended an­other. Nine more quarrels came, and nine more dwarves fell be­fore the shooting ended. In all the chaos of the attack, however, the dwarves failed to notice a small shadowy figure with a great axe scaling their southern fence.

  Twenty dwarf warriors gathered in the center of the camp with large shields held over their heads to guard against the rain of ar­rows. Before them of a sudden Fas'Ereg appeared, his enormous axe swirling at them with great speed and force. Their shields broke apart like paper before his attack, and in three strokes, five lay dead, their blood pouring out in streams. The others fell upon him quickly, swinging swords and axes at him recklessly. But Fas fought with all the glory and passion of a doomed hero. They ex­pected him to fall back and flee from them, but he stood where he was and cut deep into their ranks, slaying left and right, disre­garding the injuries they inflicted upon him. A sword blade cut into his arm, a dart stuck into his side, and a spear pierced his boot, cutting deep into his lower leg. He roared and struck again, this time making an end of the warriors.

  By this time the whole encampment was roused, and Fas heard the distant roar of the golems as their fires were lit and their metal bodies whirred to life. 'Come to me!' he shouted boldly. 'Forget not the name of Sparka! Sparka!'

  After a moment he was joined by Naj, who had fought his way over the fence while his brother drew the attention of the Fistmen. He had expended his last quarrels and cast his crossbow aside ere he climbed into the encampment. He now bore his sword and shield as he stood beside Fas awaiting death. The others would come to their senses, they thought, when the news of their deaths came to their ears. They would follow suit and make Sparka's name great.

  Another group of Fistmen approached, each with swords drawn and heavy shields guarding their bodies. The first to ap­proach stood still in awe when Fas kicked his shield right out of his hand and brought his axe down through his shoulder, cutting him in two right down to his stomach.

  Naj rushed forward and blocked several blows with his own shield as Fas readied his enormous axe for another attack. Fas swirled the axe over his head as if to prepare a downward strike, but as the dwarves prepared their defenses, Fas swirled low, bringing the axe across their legs, dropping three of them legless to the ground.

  While the others were yet considering the fate of their compan­ions, Naj thrust two more through with his sharp sword, blocked five blows and cut the thumb off of another warrior's right hand.

  'Archers!' one of the dwarves shouted as he rushed forward, swinging his sword skillfully at Fas. For a time it was all that Fas could do to defend himself, but the other warrior began to slow, and Fas went on the offensive without hesitation. His axe cut the warrior's sword in two and opened up a great gash in his chain shirt. As soon as the opening appeared, Naj loosed one of his darts into the dwarf's heart, killing him instantly.

  They slew five more dwarves before the first arrow pierced the cold midnight air. It cut a gash across Fas' right cheek as it flew past his face. 'Naj!' he shouted, hoping his brother still had his crossbow.

  A dart flew from Naj's hand with great speed and force, and the archer fell from his hiding place with a pierced skull.

  Fas shook his head in amazement. 'Sharp eyes,' he marveled.

  Naj just nodded. He was the youngest, and such a word filled him with pride. He loosed two more darts killing two more archers before they were forced to flee to another part of the camp, where they thought they would be safer from their enemies' pro­jectiles. Naj made certain to retrieve his first dart ere they left, however.

  They fought their way through two great companies of war­riors, killing or wounding nearly all that came against them. Some of the dwarves even fled from them - which is something dwarves are not often known to do. It was not long before the whole camp was awakened, and the roar of the golems was heard approach­ing. 'We do't it, brother Fas,' Naj said proudly, a white-toothed smile breaking the darkness of his blood-smeared face.

  'WE have,' Fas said, emphasizing that it was as much Naj's work as his own. 'The golems l'come to us together. We must move and draw them away from each other.'

  Naj nodded and followed after Fas as they cut their way deeper into the camp, to the place where the warriors tents lay. Naj cast a lantern onto the roof of a tent and set it ablaze, the cries from within drawing the attention of all the other warriors.

  'That comes of sleeping through such noise,' Fas laughed.

  Many of the dwarves among the tents were ill-prepared for the fight that had come upon them, and the slaughter Naj and Fas in­flicted upon them was great. Many of them were not yet fully in their armor, and some fought with only shortswords or hatchets. All the while the roar and stomp of the golems drew louder and nearer, until over the top of the hill Fas could see the great iron axe­man of Aegr approaching like a thunderstorm, smoke billow­ing from pipes atop the golem's head.

  'They come!' Naj said, nervously, breathing deeply and slowly to keep his fear under control. His body began to shake slightly as the second golem, the four-legged iron monster of Vorin, rose over the top of the hill, its death-tipped tail slashing about angrily. When Fas saw his brother's fear his own confidence melted. He knew that they were going to die. Naj was closer in age to little Dan'Ereg than he was to Fas and San, who were Ereg's eldest sons. He was not prepared for this, Fas thought mournfully. 'Come, Naj!' he shouted. 'We l'go now!'

  But as he began to run, Naj remained perfectly still, staring at the coming golems with tear filled eyes. 'Naj!' Fas repeated.

  'No,' Naj said, his fist tightening around his last dart. 'Sparka l'not be forgotten!' He started up the hill nervously, his resolve forcing his terrified body onward. All three of the remaining golems approached them, spreading out to make room for one an­other's sweeping attacks. There was Aegr and his iron axeman, Vorrin with his four-legged iron beast and another - shaped like a great iron box
with six wheels on each side and a dwarf riding atop with a huge crossbow. In the gap between the golems stood a great host of armored dwarves, ready to block any attempt at re­treat. Naj strode forward into the open, his sword and shield held in his left hand; in his right hand he clutched his dart. He shook violently, and gained his composure just as he pulled back and threw. The dart flew past all the armor and iron of Aegr's golem and pierced the great dwarf's eye, sending the iron-man in which he rode into fits of rage and agony. His axe swung and his golem wobbled, smashing into a tree and breaking itself to pieces as its rider died. Aegr fell and his golem lay still, smoke billowing uselessly into the night air from the wreck.

  For a moment Fas was filled with elation, as his brother had, with a single dart, become Glumbane - a golem-slayer. The other golems approached, and Fas remembered his own courage. But neither of them anticipated the range of Vorin's iron monster. The tail flung out wildly, stretching across the great distance and piercing Naj through the stomach.

  Time froze for an instant, it seemed to Fas, and then Naj was lifted high into the air. The tail smashed him to the ground with force such as no dwarf, man or elf could have withstood. He lay still as the golem struggled to pull its tail from the ground into which it had plunged.

  Fas looked on in horror as the dwarves and golems began their approach. He was not afraid to die - but the sight of his brother ly­ing there wounded or killed was more than he could bear. He took up his axe and held it over his head, leaned back and threw it with all the force he could muster at Vorin's iron beast. The great axe flew through the air, severing the iron tail and spinning into the host of dwarves, killing ten of them as it tore through their ranks before sinking deep into the trunk of a tree. He rushed to Naj's side.

  'Naj'Ereg!' he shouted, tears streaming down his face despite his best dwarven efforts.

  Naj tilted his head slightly. His face was pale and cold and he could only say, with blood streaming from his mouth, 'Sparka.'

  'No,' Fas said firmly, 'Not Sparka, Naj. Naj'Ereg l'not be forgot­ten!'

  'A tear,' Naj said urgently. 'A tear for Dan'Ereg.' He shut his eyes and loosed a single drop from his left eye. Fas kissed his brother's cheek, soaking the tear up with his beard.

  'I l'bring it t' him, brother,' Fas said sorrowfully.

  At that instant an arrow pierced his shoulder and Fas fell back to the ground in pain. As he tumbled onto his back a small bottle fell from his pocket and came to rest upon his chest. It was the Potene'dra - the 'Drink of Strength' he bought before they crossed the first of the Scars. It now seemed like an age had passed since then. They had known nothing then of the perils that would befall their people. He broke the seal and poured the thick potion into his mouth.

  For a moment all pain vanished from his limbs. He tore the ar­row from his shoulder and rose suddenly to his feet, his mind as clear as a mountain lake, his arms as strong as a Gargantan, his legs as strong as a bull's. The first dwarf that approached him he grabbed and tore to pieces with his bare hands, breaking his mail and shield as though they were made of paper. He charged for­ward, his eyes fixed upon Vorin's now damaged golem. An arrow struck his leg, but he felt nothing. A sword pierced his side, but he did not slow. He came to the golem and pushed it over onto its side, sending it rolling wildly down the hill, breaking Vorrin's body as it tumbled. He turned his gaze then to the final golem, which now approached him with its crossbow turning carefully to find its mark. Nai'Jemon, also, was present, his armor gleaming by torchlight. But as Fas prepared to attack them, his strength dropped from his limbs like water over a waterfall. He fell to his knees and was sick.

  'Naj,' he said weakly and sorrowfully. Nothing else passed through his mind for a long while except the words, 'I have fail't.' Somewhere, as if it were a dozen leagues away, Nai'Jemon was speaking proud and wrathful mockeries, but Fas could not under­stand a word of it. He looked about, and saw all the warriors ap­proaching him slowly as if time itself was caught in a web.

  Slowly the thought came over him that he was about to die. But his mind felt like it was filled with mud, and he could not move his arms or legs. Nai'Jemon approached him with his sword held high and with a wrathful look upon his face. 'Let Sparka and its people rot with a curse!' he said.

  Fas shut his eyes and breathed deeply, for one last time swal­lowing his pain.

  The Sparkans

  As Nai'Jemon approached, his angered expression gave way to one of awe and fear.

  Fas turned, and to the north he could see something that looked like a golem approaching quickly, battering through hordes of dwarves. When it drew near, however, Fas could see the front of Haf's great shield plowing through dwarf warriors, and scattering them to the left and right. Behind him stood Jah, with his spear swiftly piercing anyone who was not trampled by his brother's shield. At each side of Haf, slaying all who might come against him from behind, stood San with his two swords whirling and Ereg wielding the sword Skatos with deadly precision. The golems and the warriors that surrounded Fas suddenly turned their attention toward this new attack, forgetting the sickly dwarf for a moment.

  Fifteen quarrels flew from the final golem, but they all glanced off Haf's shield, the other dwarves taking cover behind him as they made their way up the hill. 'Ereg,' Nai'Jemon addressed them, 'Ereg's sons, you have made a name for Sparka. But it will be a dark name, for we shall carry the report of your death to the north.'

  'Coward!' Ereg thundered.

  Silence fell almost immediately - it was against all custom and honor to accuse another dwarf warrior of cowardice. Slay his kin, murder his beloved, steal every piece of gold and silver from his treasures - all this was forgivable. 'We blood-foes, then, and our kin forever,' Nai'Jemon said solemnly, his nostrils flaring as he at­tempted to swallow his shock and rage. 'How many you have kill't for t' sake of t' Elementals and their dreams. Curse you, fool. Fist and Antfister are innocent of your blood. Our lands have done nothing t' Sparka.'

  'Liar and Coward,' Ereg replied. 'The Jee'Nai lie not, and I not mistake them. If I swing my blade, though at first it does not slay, t' beginning of t' blow is as much an attack as when it pierces flesh. Fist and Antfister have lusted after t' north for ages, and have plan't war with Turg. Your sword is raised, and your blow descends even as we speak. But we have kill't you first. 'Liar, Coward, Fool, thrice cursed, Nai'Jemon.'

  The silence that fell over the dwarves hung over them still as Ereg emerged from amid his sons, his bloodstained sword gleam­ing by firelight. The only sound that could be heard was the la­bored breathing of Fas and the thunderous rumble of the last golem. But no one would interfere with what had become a matter of honor.

  Nai'Jemon pointed his sword at Ereg and spat. They would speak no more words to one another while breath yet remained within them. Their movements were swift and their blows deadly as they swirled and spun, each imbuing their attacks with more than a century of experience. Nai'Jemon at first expected the fight to end swiftly. He parried one of Ereg's blows and struck, expect­ing his clever reprisal to make an end of his enemy. Ereg, howev­er, ducked low, escaping the attack and cutting deeply into the other dwarf's leg. Nai'Jemon hissed, but held his tongue back from cursing. When such feuds arose among dwarves it was cus­tomary to remain silent until the object of one's hatred was slain. Some dwarves had been known to remain silent for more than a decade as they awaited the opportunity to slay their blood-foes.

  Ereg smiled wickedly as he anticipated a quicker satisfaction.

  Nai'Jemon made a clever flurry of attacks, each time bringing his sword swiftly down upon Ereg. But within Ereg's eyes he could see a fire kindled, and he knew that there was nothing else within the other dwarf's mind but the fight. He cut across toward Ereg's head, expecting to see Ereg's head fall from his neck. But Ereg leaned back, rolling back onto his shoulders. With a great ex­ertion and a shout he put his hands upon the ground and hurled his entire body high into the air, over Nai'Jemon's head. As he de­scended he cut deep
into the back of his enemy's neck, Skatos sev­ering the bone with ease.

  With life still beaming from his eyes, Nai'Jemon fell powerless to the dirt, his head limply drooping upon his neck as he gurgled and choked. Ereg spat, and thrust his blade rapidly into Nai'Je­mon's limbs, inflicting as many wounds as he could upon the man who had slain his son Naj. The wounds, however, did not seem to affect him, and no matter how he cut the dwarf he could elicit no cry of anguish or moan of agony. The wound he inflicted had been too merciful, he realized with regret. Dwarves were expected to give their enemies a swift, if not glorious death. But when it came to those who were thus opposed to one another, the usual rules did not apply.

  The silence remained, even as Nai'Jemon's flesh turned pale and his labored breath vanished away. The sound of the golem stopped also, and the dwarves lowered their weapons as they gazed upon the devastation that surrounded them.

  'Ereg,' a voice called out from within the last golem. 'Peace?' The archer who stood upon the golem lowered his crossbow and looked upon the Sparkans anxiously. Normally a golem rider would be fearless and full of confidence. Having seen the other golems fall, however, and having seen so many brave dwarves come to ruin, he could not muster anything resembling assurance.

  'Peace,' Ereg said, turning his attention at last to his sons.

  Fas he passed by in silence, not even glancing at him. He came to Naj and lifted him gently from the ground where he lay. A thousand thoughts rushed into his mind, threatening to overcome him. But he breathed deeply and sighed. A thousand curses came to his tongue - a thousand curses for the elves who brought all this upon him. A curse for Agonas and his ambition, a curse for Gheshtick and his loyalty, a curse for Xan and his cold intellect, and a curse for Zefru and the others for their witless cowardice. But even as these feelings raged within him he remembered the words of the Jee'Nai. The destruction that was coming to Turg could not be altered, and the coming of the elves had nothing at all to do with what had happened here.

  He swallowed his feelings and started down the hill, the Fist­men parting to make way for the slayer of their commander. One golem yet remained in the camp, but he had sued for peace. A dwarf's word was as certain as an Elementals, and therefore the golem was, as far as Sparka was concerned, as good as dead. Silently his sons filed in behind him and followed him out of the camp through the main gate, vanishing quietly into the Gar­Brusht. Fas remained where he lay for a time, fighting with all his might to restrain his sorrow and grief. He breathed swiftly and deeply, trying to swallow his pain and shame, but in the end it felt to him as if his anguish swallowed him whole. A rage passed over him, and his clouded mind became clear again. There was nothing to say. The others knew his reasons. They understood the whole matter from start to finish. There would never be a reason to speak of it. Nonetheless he knew that they were wrathful with him, and that something had been lost that day that would never be regained - something more than the life of his brother. Grief swept over him once more as he thought of how close Dan and Naj had been, and how Dan, still just a child, would respond to the news of his brother's passing.

  The thing that stung him the most, however, was the realization that the dwarves of Sparka had, in the end, triumphed, and inflict­ed their injury upon Fist and Antfister. golems were almost always ridden by their inventors, and when their makers passed into death, the secrets of their construction passed as well. There were now only three golems in Fist, and one of them had surren­dered to the Sparkans. He had not forseen the possibility of suc­cess, and he treated his life and his brother's life with contempt because of his ignorance. He rose from the ground and stormed past many armed dwarves, to the place where his axe had landed. With a great effort he pulled it from the tree, slung it over his shoulder, and walked out of the camp. Every eye was fixed upon him and a murmur arose among the Fistmen. They were calling him a Berserker - which is to say, 'a soulless one.'

  Burial

  Dwarves do very little to prepare their dead for burial, and they do even less to preserve the bodies. They are never lain where they died, for they believed that the dead must be returned to the earth, and that they could not return if they went nowhere. So Ereg and his sons did not go very far into the GarBrusht before they dug a hole, laid Naj's body within it and gave him one final kiss upon the brow. Fas came last, still without speaking so much as a word to the others.

  The body was then covered with dirt. The dwarves used no coffins or encasements for their dead, as being surrounded by the earth was, in their minds, like being bound in crimson silk. As dirt piled upon his sleeping face they held back their tears, thinking how beautiful a thing it was to make such a return. In time he would be taken up by the ground and become part of all things once again, though never again in the form in which they knew him. They called this process (the process of decay) Jee'ninta, which signifies, 'the becoming of substance' or 'becoming the ele­mentals'. Indeed, from that point on they knew that they could hear him if they listened to the elements - for he was no longer distinct from them. Such, at least, is the understanding of the dwarves concerning the dead. And I dare say it is a deeper under­standing than what is possessed among our own people, and among most other human cultures. Even the Nihlion, though their doctrines are profound and deep, do not always fully grasp this truth.

  This is evidenced from the careless treatment the dwarves re­ceived at the hands of the author of the Wars of Weldera, who seemed to regard dwarves as little more than exceptionally clever, hairy little goblins. Even as he criticized those who knew not the nature of goblins, so also did he make himself vulnerable to the accusation that he knew not the nature of the dwarves. But there were never any dwarves in his homeland of Solsis, and there were none in Weldera in those days save for a small remnant of recluse delvers in the Mountains of Desset. Now there are none in Weldera at all - and perhaps none in the whole continent of Ill­maria. There are certainly none in Malgier, where it is said the last of the High Elves yet resides. But the Lapulians have always had the dwarves of Zoor for their northern neighbors, if such a term is appropriate here, and therefore understand them better than one who learned only what the dead libraries of Dadron had to reveal.

  Lapulians also should understand how careful one must be when studying the histories of the elves!

  When the dwarves had piled the dirt high atop Naj's body they swallowed the last of their sadness and pressed on into the Gar­Brusht, solemnly making their way back to their camp. Fas still trailed far behind them, his mind fluctuating rapidly between re­morse, anger, hopelessness and fear.

  The Fistmen made their own burial arrangements for the fallen, gathered their supplies and made their way quickly to the Rugar River. After crossing they made sure that there remained no bridge by which the Gargantan might again cross into Antfister. In a sense their mission had been successful - for Ereg and the Sparkans would no longer trouble the land. But their army had been humiliated and their captain had been slain in a feud. The last golem-rider sued for peace, preventing them from seeking re­venge against the people of Sparka. Wherever the dwarves went, however, the tale of Ereg's swordsmanship was spread, and the quick sword of Ereg became a blade of great fame and renown.

  All over Fist and Antfister, Turg and eventually all of Kharku its name was spoken: the Skatos-Ereg.