Blue Diamonds (Book One of The Blue Diamonds Saga) (15 page)

Rolo then turned to Shomnath and Pall, who were still struggling to hold ground deathly close to the water. The prince was frantically blocking swiping, claws all while trying to keep his grip on Baymar. They were merely inches from being pulled overboard.

“Nuff,” growled Rolo, now nearly a beast himself. If he wasn’t on the last leg of consciousness, other words may have followed, but at the moment it was all that his feral mind could harness. In four apish strides he was upon them, scooping up Pall’s axe somewhere along the way.

“Nuff,” he repeated.

Then in one hooking, whistling swing, he sliced both of the cats that held his friends completely in half, sending four pieces of cat splashing into the bubbling sea. Shomnath and Pall rolled back from the sudden slack, with Baymar falling in tow.

The axe fell from his hand as Rolo swiveled around to the motionless Kala. He willed himself to go to her, but instead dropped to the ground as his surroundings faded into darkness.

As the giant fell from consciousness, the world shook. It wasn’t his body going into the spasms of death that he’d seen in others so many times before. The world shook because Aga had bulldozed onto shore. They made it across the Boiling Sea.

Burt Hammerheart loved the cool, clean air of night. Every night, ever since the move to Loyola, he enjoyed the fresh air by taking long walks throughout the forest that surrounded the mountain. He enjoyed his hikes so much that before long he'd formulated a new goal, which was to hike all the way up to the peak.

After three months of conditioning and studying the angles of the mountain, he was finally making the climb. He knew that it had to be now. He had to do it before winter set in and made the already low temperatures unbearable. He dreamt of becoming the first Hammerheart to caress the peak, and being the first at anything was all the motivation that a competitive dwarf such as Burt needed. For the first half of the climb he wore a childish grin.

Now, after about sixteen exhausting hours of climbing hand over pick, Burt diligently plowed through powder and ice toward his prize, although the childish grin had long disappeared. It was well past the peak of night, and by his calculations he had to finish the climb swiftly if he was to achieve his secondary goal, which was to watch the sunrise from above the clouds.

About halfway into the climb, he realized that he should have made the climb two months earlier. Fall hadn't set in, yet it was much colder than he thought it would be. It was a cold that he felt in his bones. The wind pounded flurries into him from random directions and sometimes from all directions at once. Clusters of icicles from his beard froze to his scarf, and his gloves cracked every time he moved his fingers, but being a true-blooded (humans translate this as ‘hard headed’) dwarf such as he, he wouldn’t succumb to such irritations. Or at least that is what he kept telling himself. Somewhere, deep down beneath his tough, thick exterior, Burt was starting to doubt his judgment. Even his burly fur coat was frozen through, making it much heavier than normal. Then, just as he was about to give up, his fingers felt a ledge.

“Finally,” he moaned.

He'd been crawling up an icy cliff face like a lost spider for the last hour, and it became very tiresome, very fast. He happily pulled himself to the ledge, hoping it would be deep enough for him to sit, or even better have a small cave he might rest in. He was more than ready for a short break. The winds had picked up, and between the blasting snowflakes and tears filling his eyes, his range of vision was reduced to inches. He was certain that he couldn’t have reached the summit yet, so he felt his way around the ledge with one arm while using his other to cover his face from the violent flurries.

To his surprise, there wasn't a cave or nook, but a massive double-sided door. Incredulously, someone had built a shelter near the summit. The ledge was so shallow that the iron door was nearly flush with the mountainside. Ornate stone railing emerged from both sides of the door that broke off at the edge of the ledge, hinting that there had once been a full terrace. It was a truly amazing discovery. Somerlund had no record of anyone climbing to the peak, let alone building on it. He couldn't fathom what trouble it would've been to build in these conditions, even for dwarves.

“Darn it,” he mumbled, grabbing over his shoulder out of reflex. It had been some time since he’d toted around his trusty axe, or any other weapon for that matter. To be honest it had been a long time since he even needed to be armed. A voice inside told him that now would have been a good time to have a weapon.

He bent forward, and just as he placed an ear against the door a bolt unlocked from the inside. He sprang to the right of the doorway, and then balanced on top of the piece of stone railing. It was only wide enough for one foot so he kicked his other foot into the cliff for support. He had no orc slicing axe, but was luckier to have his ice pick and spiked climbing boots. He had just gotten a secure footing when the heavy door swung open and slammed into the rail merely inches from his foot. Echoes of the collision rippled down the mount before being swallowed by the wind.

Peeking over his shoulder, Burt waited to see who might emerge from the door, but he could barely see through the barrage of ice and wind. The only thing he could see at first was how the snow around the ledge exploded with yellow and orange light that flooded out from the open door. Then, he glimpsed a shadowy figure walk out onto the ledge and pause, standing still for several moments. The wraith stood perfectly still, unaffected by a wind that seemed to lap at an invisible shell surrounding it. It was all a blur, until as fluid as a shadow, the figure walked right off the edge. Once the phantom disappeared from sight the door slammed shut once again. Burt scooted back onto the ledge, dropped to his hands and knees, and peered over the edge.

At first, all he could see was wave after wave of unrelenting snow swirling and dancing along the mountain wall, capping the few random rocks that protruded the side of the cliff. Then he saw it. Who or what ever it was, it was obviously flying by how smoothly it glided down completely oblivious to the terrain. As sudden as the wraith appeared, it had vanished into the night. He quickly rose, turning once again to the tall door. It had to be fifteen feet tall.

“Built fer giants,” Burt said, even though the phantom that exited couldn’t have been much taller than he was. Then he finished what he started earlier, and leaned the side of his head against the door in effort to listen for more life within. The metal was surprisingly warm to the touch, enough so that the snow covering his bushy eyebrows melted and ran down his cheek. To his surprise it sounded as though a party raged inside. He heard loud conversation, clanking silverware, music, and even women giggling in chorus. Whoever it was, the ruckus didn’t sound one bit threatening and his mouth began to salivate at the thought of hot food and foaming drink. Surely the host would be welcoming, understanding the effort he’d made just to reach his abode.

He braced himself in preparation to tug on the hexagon knobs centering the door, but paused when he saw letters etched into the iron just above. Half of the word was covered with ice, which he gingerly chipped away, careful not to make a sound. He wanted to walk in rather than knock and draw the attention of the entire party.

“Ambrosia,” he read aloud. “So that’s yer name, mountain wraith.”

The name wasn't familiar to him, so Burt disregarded it and went for the knobs once more. He gripped the handle for one moment, weighing the possible danger against the thought of food and drink. The decision was an easy one. With a strong tug he pulled at the knob, but to his amazement the door whipped open with weightless ease. A little too much ease, as the door swung out, slamming into the wall the same way it had earlier. The glare from the brightly lit room once again illuminated the storm, bringing colorful life into the dancing snowflakes. From within the open door the song and cheer of the party curtly stopped, leaving Burt alone with the whining wind.

He quickly walked inside, crouching defensively. It only took a few steps for him to view the entire chamber. The open, five-sided room was devoid of any life at all, let alone any kind of a party. The room was brightly lit from five large torches in fancy, gold sconces in each of the five corners. The flames flickered and tickled the ceiling but did not permeate the room with the rippling sounds that flames their size should have. Nor did the dancing flames mark the ceiling black like normal flames would have. The room was so quiet, that he felt if he spoke his words would be sucked out of him and swallowed by the vacuum of silence. The uncanny quiet was hard to bear and definitely unnatural. The old dwarf had traveled through tunnels fathoms deeper than the deepest ocean, alone sometimes for months on end and couldn’t recall a silence such as this. It was deafening.

After a quick scan of the chamber Burt quickly dismissed what he’d heard from outside as his imagination, played upon by his fatigue. It seemed more pleasant an excuse than magic, anyway. A nice bash would have been great, but reality was equally impressive. He was amazed that such a vast and richly decorated room could be at the top of Loyola, let alone anywhere outside the riches of the city. The walls were covered with dozens of beautiful, intricate murals from floor to ceiling. The finely detailed art wasn’t colored by paint, but an elaborate mosaic combination of various metals, colored porcelain and gemstones. Within these were images of landscapes, ocean scenery, deserts, and peculiar animals he didn't recognize.

To his left sat a pair of comfortable looking chairs. They were padded with purple velvet, and propped by golden legs, covered with detailed moldings of what appeared to be ruby covered roses. The furniture faced each other in a small, intimate huddle separated by a short table covered with fresh fruit and a crystal chalice filled with a deep red wine.

Burt's focus then shifted to a wall across from the area where the chairs sat. There, isolated from the rest of the mosaic, was a floral border, built into the wall like a frame, wrapping a portrait of a woman. He was drawn to the painting, and before he knew it he had walked right to it, seemingly magnetized by gaze. Her hair was whiter than the snow outside, and her eyes bluer than a summer sky. She had high, yet soft cheeks and knowing eyes that burned right into your heart. Her beauty was hypnotizing.

“Not bad lookin, fer a human,” he said. In truth, she was the most mesmerizing woman he’d ever laid eyes upon, even if only in portrait.

“So, someone
was
snooping outside!” snapped a voice behind him.

Burt’s world shattered as he twirled around on weak legs. He hoped the wraith was as kind as she was beautiful. Shocked, he found no beautiful white haired woman standing in the doorway but Baylor, Jevon’s new alchemist. The studious dwarf seemed much more menacing now, wearing a twisted grin and grasping a long silver dagger in his hand. He was obviously not the simple alchemist he claimed to be.

“Baylor, ye dog,” growled Burt. His brow furrowed in anger, trying desperately not to show any sign of fear. He was scared though, for if Baylor was the wraith he’d seen earlier then he clearly possessed power. His mind went into rapid thought. He glanced for any other escape route besides the door Baylor blocked. There was no other way out.

“Yer the one looking like a scared pup to me,” laughed Baylor. "There's no other way out, if that's what yer looking for."

Baylor casually strode into the room, confident as a king in his castle. Burt was watching a nightmare unfold before his very eyes. He’d warned Jevon of his dislike of the taciturn stranger, bearing the self-proclaimed title alchemist without a single reference. Jevon had waved Burt off, all too trusting of anyone who wanted to be a part of his new clan. When Baylor halted the deeper tunneling operations on only his second day Burt screamed fraud, but Jevon took it as a blessing to have a professional on board, once again dismissing his brother’s feelings as paranoia. Now Burt understood that his brother was probably being influenced by some dark powers.

“Jevon knows what yer up to,” claimed Burt.

After living a life full of near death situations, Burt was quite the keen old dwarf. Although the scales seemed tipped outrageously against him, he knew the value of bluffing to the very end. He’d been saved by a bluff before, and hoped he could pull it off here. The lie obviously worked to some degree because Baylor winced in frustration. The problem was, that even if Burt slipped past Baylor what then? He still needed to climb down the mountain.

“So I
was
followed from Somerlund,” hissed Baylor, as if confirming his own suspicions. “It doesn’t matter, everyone in me way'll just have to die. An ye’ll be first!”

Baylor raised his dagger, grinning as he advanced. Of course this was exactly the reaction Burt hoped for and braced for the attack. He raised his pick hammer up, though it was only for show. It was heavy and he was old, and that served as a bad combination against the younger dwarf with a blade. Baylor inched toward Burt, who was backed against the wall beneath the smiling portrait of Ambrosia.

When Baylor was within reach to make a stab for Burt, the wise old dwarf faked running to his left, extending a step, before shifting his weight in order to bounce in the opposite direction. The crossover feint worked perfectly as his assailant lunged toward the juke, missing wide and slicing hard into the wall with his dagger, creating a burst of sparks. This bought Burt the second he needed to flee in the opposite direction and make a run for the door.

The old dwarf snickered as he made a break for it, fully willing to crash and tumble all the way down to Fort Hammerheart's doorstep if he had to. He needed to get word to Jevon, even if it was in the form of his battered, lifeless body. Yet just as Burt reached the ledge and was about to leap his entire body was overcome by a sharp, excruciating pain. He couldn’t even scream as he watched his last breath leave his lips in a thin puff of smoke, just before everything around him went black.

In the room Baylor was smiling. His dagger was on the floor, which was mostly a decoy. The real weapon shimmered upon his left fist, which he’d kept under his cloak the whole time. The rather large silver ring that fit three of Baylor's fingers was the magical ring Frostbern, recently relieved from Baylor’s previous master, Horace. The trinket was cherished above all the toys that the Archmage of Somerlund possessed, and poetically became the very one that slew him. Now Frostbern's latest victim, Burt Hammerheart stood a frozen sculpture near the top of Loyola to be battered by blizzards for all time.

Baylor smiled, but his feeling of conquest was short lived. His smile quickly morphed into a loathing cringe. The gravity of what Burt said snapped his mind back into reality. He knew that he’d reached the end of his act.