Skemtun struggled to see through the haze and darkness. He gasped when he saw what had upset the old dwarf. Another battering ram, covered with branches to camouflage its presence, emerged. As it came into view, the orcs tossed its leafy camouflage to the ground. There was a terrible clanking sound as the machine inched forward.

  This battering ram was gigantic, easily twice as large as the other one that they had just destroyed. By the looks of it, it was also much better constructed. While the other machine was made of wood and ropes, this machine gleamed with iron plating and countless rows of bronze spikes. It had a giant iron head, covered in black tar and carved into the shape of a hammer.

  Skemtun gasped. The other machine was a decoy! King Nar had tricked them! The horrible realization hit him like a fist in the gut.

  The huge machine lumbered down the hillside, and into the scorched fields. Countless orcs pushed from behind. The orcs cheered as the giant ram lurched forward. The machine rolled up the ridge to the gates—no small feat for the orcs. On the horizon, the sun was just starting to rise. All their burning oil was gone, and it would take at least a day to prepare more. Half their arrows were used up, and the spellcasters were exhausted. What hope was there of keeping the orcs out of the city now?

  Baltas cursed. The dwarves had played their hand too soon. With a shaking voice, he cried out, “Man the catapults! Take down that machine!” The dwarves loaded their catapults with stones and small boulders; anything they had. The stones flew into the horde below, killing dozens, but doing no visible damage to the machine.

  “We’ll get through it,” Baltas said, his voice cracking. “We’ve always made it through in the past, and we’ll do the same again.”

  Skemtun nodded and wanted to reply, but when he opened his mouth, he couldn’t speak. Only a croak came out. He could see their troops shaking, beginning to falter. Any sense of bravery was gone. Fear and confusion appeared on their faces.

  He forced a smile. He had to put on a brave face, for the men at least.

  The ram passed through the worst of the burned areas, crushing dead bodies in its wake. Now the machine’s momentum carried it forward down the hillside. More orcs ran to surround it, grunting and pushing to get it into position.

  Near the back of the horde, a huge orc wearing iron chain mail appeared. There, riding a massive, armored drask, sat King Nar himself. Nar was deep in conversation with another orc. Hanging from his side was a broadsword. Magnificent black armor, decorated with polished animal skulls, encircled his barrel-like chest. The Orc King widened his jaw to reveal jagged rows of gleaming yellow teeth, each longer than a man’s thumb. Even from a distance, the dwarves could see that Nar was laughing.

  At dawn, the new machine reached the front gates. For a brief moment, the world hung still and all was silent. Skemtun raised a shaking hand and took a gulp from his water skin.

  The dragon riders were flying directly above them now, circling in tight formation. Skemtun couldn’t see their faces, but he knew what they were thinking. It was what they were all thinking. If the gates failed, they’d be annihilated.

  The orcs pushed the ram into position and grabbed the ropes. They pulled back, lifting the head so high that it almost reached the battlements. Then, they let go. The gears spread open and the battering ram swung forward.

  “Ram!” Baltas yelled. He raced off, shouting commands to the frightened troops.

  A loud boom, like thunder, resonated through the air. The soldiers stationed above the gate lurched from side to side, stumbling backwards from the wall. The ground rattled horribly, sending two archers toppling over the sides. They were quickly torn to pieces by the orcs below.

  “Look out!” screamed Baltas. “Step back from the wall!”

  Another boom sounded, this time followed by a crack and low whine.

  Suddenly, Kathir appeared at the top of the stairs. For a second he stood there, frozen, taking in the chaotic scene. “What’s going on? Why didn’t anyone call for me?” he said, his voice laced with alarm.

  Skemtun turned with a horrified cry. “The orcs are at the gate! They’ve breached our defenses!”

  Kathir rushed to Skemtun’s side. “I’ve got to get you out of here!”

  Skemtun shook his head. All around him, dwarves were paralyzed with fear.

  “Boom!” went the battering ram again, striking the ancient gates. A single dent appeared in the right door, and one of the hinges ripped from its frame. The terrible tremors caused a rock-fall that spilled debris onto the battering ram and the orcs below. A cloud of dust rose up, but the orcs didn’t stop their attack.

  “Boom!” came another attack. A few moments later, the sound of the battering ram ceased, and the iron gates of Mount Velik collapsed.

  Thousands of orcs rushed forward, overwhelming the small battalion stationed inside the gate. The orcs poured through the shattered doors. The dwarves watched helplessly as the horde stormed into their now-defenseless city.

  Baltas spun around, shrieking new orders. “The walls are breached! They’re coming through! We need help! Save the women and children!”

  Kathir rushed to the edge of the wall and gasped. “Please, Skemtun, you’ve got to listen to me,” he pleaded, grabbing the dwarf’s shoulder. “I'm telling you, we need to get out of here now. If we don’t leave now, we won’t get another chance. The orcs will be coming up the stairs any minute. It’s my job to protect your life! You’ll die here!”

  Adrenaline surging, Kathir jumped forward, trying to pull Skemtun towards the door. The madness of panic took over as it looked like they could be trapped above the doors, unable to escape.

  Skemtun jerked away and grabbed his axe, raising it above his head. “I can’t abandon my people. I must see this through to the end.”

  They heard a loud grunt behind them and swung around to see an orc hurdling up the stairs. The orc faced them with a terrible shriek. There was another one right behind him.

  “It’s too late, it’s already too late…” Skemtun cried, swinging his axe into the neck of the first attacker.

  It was over…Mount Velik had fallen.

  The Temple

  Far away in the Elburgian Forest, Tallin and Mugla continued onward toward the coast. The sun was bright, the air clear and cool. They flew low above the treetops, and Tallin shrouded them with a concealment spell whenever they flew over a village.

  They had already been traveling for several days. This morning they would cross over the pass dividing the city of Faerroe and the Jutland River valley, about the midway point in their journey. Tallin and Mugla kept their minds warded and closed to any telepathic communication. They didn’t want to risk any more unpleasant contact with the elves. Because of this, they were oblivious to the carnage wreaked upon the dwarves, or the bloodshed at the Elder Willow.

  A large bird flew up from a nearby tree and almost hit them, but Duskeye swerved easily. The sudden movement took Mugla by surprise, and she yelped with surprise. “Look out!”

  Tallin chuckled and steadied his aunt by grabbing her around the shoulders. “Sorry about that. I’m used to sharp turns, but sometimes I forget that not everyone is a dragon rider.”

  She gave her nephew an exasperated look. “Can ye be a little more careful?”

  “Sorry,” Tallin said, tapping the dragon’s shoulder. “Let’s go a little higher, Duskeye.” The dragon nodded and rose smoothly into the clouds.

  “How close are we?” asked Mugla. “It’s been a long time since I’ve traveled this far west. The countryside looks different than it did two hundred years ago.”

  “We’re still many days from the coast,” replied Tallin.

  “Will the elves get there before us?”

  Tallin shook his head. “No, the elves are traveling on foot. They’ll arrive at the rendezvous point later than us. Duskeye flies faster than they can run, so we can take our time.”

  Mugla smiled. “Well, that’s nice. I enjoy seein’ the countryside.”

  Along the way, they stopped to rest and spend the night at various points. One day, they were delayed for several hours while Tallin repaired a tear in Duskeye’s saddle. It rained heavily the following day, so they waited outside the city of Jutland for the storm to pass. Tallin found a dry cave for them to sleep in, and although he didn’t get much rest, it felt good to lay down and relax.

  Mugla stretched out on the floor, wrapped her shawl around her body, and went to sleep. Tallin was hungry but the idea of food wasn’t tempting. He felt too nervous about their journey.

  Soon the rain cleared, but a thick fog remained. Tallin donned a heavy wool cloak and gave his aunt a thick blanket to wrap around herself. The cold fog made flying uncomfortable, but safer for all of them.

  They spoke little, except for Tallin’s infrequent comments about the landscape or some village that they happened to pass. Each was sunk in their own thoughts.

  Tallin seemed increasingly preoccupied, while Mugla kept anxious eyes on her nephew, waiting for an appropriate time to tell Tallin her news about Skera-Kina. The last few days had turned everything on its head. She no longer knew what to think. But instead of sharing her fears, she kept quiet, not wanting to upset him.

  As the days passed, the forest became sparser, and wild vegetation covered the landscape. The remaining trees became smaller and spaced farther apart. As nightfall approached on the twelfth day, the coastline became visible on the horizon. There was a lull in the wind and the fog dispersed, revealing a bright skyline. Sea birds were visible in the distance, diving into the water to catch their dinner.

  They stopped one last time to rest, camping on top of a hill. A short distance from their camp lay a tiny settlement of less than a dozen homes. Beyond the valley there was nothing but ocean, vast and wide.

  The temperature dropped sharply in the evening, and after some consideration, Tallin decided to build a small fire, something that they had avoided for most of the journey since it drew attention to their location.

  As the sun dipped down into the sea, the ocean became a brilliant purple streak above the dunes. Even from a distance, one could tell that the water was rough, with frothy whitecaps all across the surface. The distant sound of waves pounding onto the shore traveled inland on the breeze.

  Tallin turned his head to gaze at the horizon. “It’s been several years since I’ve been this close to the Black Sea. I’d forgotten how the ocean sounded.”

  “The waves are high. That means that the Lord of the Ocean is mad today,” Mugla said. “We should throw some bread into the water to appease him.”

  Tallin chuckled. “That’s just an old sailor’s tale.”

  “It’s not!” said Mugla adamantly. “There’s a lot of truth in those tales. The sea has a dark temper and it would do well for ye to show some respect.”

  Surprised by her brusque tone, Tallin decided to listen. “Well, we have some time. Why don’t you tell me one of those old sailor stories?”

  Pleased with the suggestion, Mugla replied, “Good idea! What do ye want to hear?”

  “Tell me about the sea,” said Tallin, pulling a piece of dried meat from his saddlebags. He ate it slowly and sat down to listen. As soon as Tallin was settled, she began her tale.

  “Long ago, when the land of the elves was still part of Durn and before humans walked the earth, a bountiful harvest season passed, and Saekonungar the sea god was born. Saekonungar’s mother was Golka, the dark goddess of war. His father was Bannus, the jolly god of festivals. That’s why the sea is so temperamental. Saekonungar’s father only wanted to have fun and make merry, while his mother only wanted to fight and make war. Eventually, Saekonungar grew tired of his parent's bickering, and he left to go live in the bottom of the sea. That’s why the sea god is both generous and spiteful at the same time. In one breath, he will push fish into yer net, and in the next breath, he’ll crush yer boat. Sailors know this, and that’s why they always spit over the stern, in order to give the Lord of the Ocean something of themselves, in the hope that the sea god will give them calm seas in return.”

  “Hmm,” said Tallin. “Nice story. I don’t remember that one from my childhood.”

  “Ye wouldn’t have. It’s a story that I learned during my travels. Dwarves are creatures of the earth, not of the sea. Our people dwell in the mountains, so the sea god is not worshipped by us, but ye should still respect him when ye are in his lands. Just because Saekonungar isn’t yer god doesn’t mean he isn’t important to somebody.” She grew quiet after that, drawing her blanket up to her chin. Tallin thought she’d fallen asleep.

  It was dark now. Only the dim light of their small campfire illuminated their surroundings. But then she said, “I’m going to say a little prayer to the sea god tonight. I think ye should do the same. Crossing the Black Sea is difficult, even when the water is calm, and we could use the sea god’s help.” With that, she turned around and fell asleep.

  Tallin tried to sleep, but couldn’t. His mind wouldn’t let him relax. Am I doing the right thing?

  Now that they’d come so far, he felt riddled with doubt. He couldn’t believe he was doing this, risking his life and his aunt’s life on what now seemed like a very risky plan. After hours of tossing and turning, he finally fell into a restless sleep, troubled by dark dreams.

  Tallin awoke the nest morning with the elves standing over him, shaking his shoulder.

  “Wake up, halfling,” said Carnesîr. “We’re here. It’s time to go.”

  Tallin sat up and threw off his blanket. All that remained of the fire was a mound of ashes. “When did you arrive?” he asked.

  “Just now, as the sun was rising,” said Amandila. “We ran through the night. I saw the smoke from your campfire from a distance.”

  “Do any of you wish to rest awhile?” asked Tallin, rubbing his eyes.

  Though all of them looked weary, Carnesîr replied, “No. We are close to the end of our journey. We’ll rest later, on our way to the island.”

  Mugla took that moment to pop up from her sleeping place, crouched behind some tall grasses.

  “Hell-ooooo!” she shouted at the top of her lungs, and cackled when all three of the elves jumped with surprise. She had been completely covered, and she was so small that she looked like a roll of blankets.

  Carnesîr’s face went pale. “Mugla!” he cried, “What are you doing here?”

  Tallin’s eyebrows shot up. “You two know each other?” He hadn’t expected that.

  Mugla hooted, “Oh yes, Carnesîr and I go way back, don’t we, ye scheming old tramp? We were in the war together. Do you remember those times? Not all of them were good times, mind ye.” Her voice was taunting.

  “She can’t come with us,” said Carnesîr firmly.

  Tallin stood up. “Why not?”

  “Yea, why not?” said Mugla with a toothless grin. “Sorry to disappoint ye, but you can’t stop me. I’m coming along, whether ye like it or not.”

  Carnesîr blinked, taken aback. ‘‘Why, you simply can’t. I forbid it!’’ His words trailed off in sputters and gasps.

  Tallin couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Carnesîr is really upset over this—genuinely upset!

  “Oh, grow up, Carnesîr!” Mugla snapped, poking the elf’s chest with her bony finger. “Ye can’t stop me from coming along.”

  Carnesîr’s face turned almost purple with rage. “How dare you speak to me so disrespectfully!”

  Tallin noticed that Fëanor was smirking. Amandila covered her mouth with her hand so Carnesîr could not see her laugh.

  Mugla enjoyed the elf’s rising discomposure. “Ye’re such a toffee-nosed gobbin. This mission is about savin’ the dragons, and if we’re lucky, getting’ rid of a few nasty assassins along the way. This mission is not about putting another feather in yer cap or pleasing yer snotty queen, do ye understand?”

  Carnesîr raised a trembling finger at Mugla’s face. “I refuse to allow this foul-mouthed dwarf to accompany us. I refuse!”

  “Nonsense,” said Tallin, “Mugla’s visited the island. She knows the terrain and the location of the temple. Her knowledge is useful to me.”

  “Fëanor’s been there, too! We don’t need her to come along!” Carnesîr argued. His hands were clenched into trembling fists by his side.

  “Well, it’s not your decision, it’s mine,” Tallin said. “And I say she’s coming. If you don’t like it, then you can turn around and go back to Brighthollow by yourself.”

  Carnesîr’s face turned a rainbow of colors as an internal battle raged within him. After what seemed like an eternity, he responded. “Fine,” he spat. “That’s perfectly fine! But don’t blame me when she ruins this mission with her careless attitude!”

  Tallin bit his cheek to keep from laughing. The elf’s anger was so overblown that it was ridiculous.

  “I’m going down to the dunes. I’ll hire the boat.” Carnesîr shot Mugla a withering stare and pushed past them, walking toward the beach.

  Mugla couldn’t resist sticking it to Carnesîr one last time, and shot a final insult at his retreating back. “Eh! Where’re ye going in such a hurry, ye stuffy bastard? We’re just starting to catch up on old times!” Tallin couldn’t hold back after that and doubled with laughter.

  Carnesîr ignored them all and kept walking, his back rigid with anger.

  Tallin started cleaning up the camp and packing away the blankets. In the meantime, Mugla introduced herself to the other two elves.

  Amandila and Fëanor were aloof, but polite, and didn’t seem bothered by the fact that Carnesîr seemed to hate her. Tallin made a mental note to ask Mugla about her gripe with Carnesîr later, when they could speak in private.

  At that point, Duskeye left, going back to Shesha’s cave to help her guard the nest. The remainder of their journey would be by sea until they reached the island of Balbor. Tallin didn’t like the thought of traveling to Balbor without his dragon, but based on Mugla’s prior warnings, he knew he couldn’t risk it.

  They arrived at the beach an hour later. Carnesîr was waiting for them on the shoreline, near a little sailboat tied to the dock. It was still early, and they were alone on the shore.

 

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