Undermind

Flanked by a ring of drackenwood trees, the circle of keepers stood before him, tall and proud, holding aloft staves and wands of spellshaped witherbark, thistlebranch, redleaf and virlime, tipped with pristine arlium shards. Their amber eyes smouldered with ill-concealed contempt.

The corner of a closed mouth twitched. There was a barely-suppressed exhalation. A snigger.

And then they were laughing.

Full throated, knee-slapping belly laughs filled the grove. Bodies shook. Quivering fingers pointed.

Pointed at him.

Heat spread across his face, and a sinking feeling filled his gut. He looked down, already knowing what he would see.

He stood before his fellow keepers unclad; weaponless.

“It’s not my fault!” he tried to tell them, but only a wheezing whisper emerged. “I didn’t forget to bring my focus! She took it from me! She…”

She was near. He could feel it.

A shadow fell across his face.

She loomed over him, impossibly tall, yet not even standing to her full height. Her lumpy, misshapen body was pierced by half a quiver of arrows, and covered from head to toe in gashes and burns. Breasts spilled out of the bloody, tattered rags around her chest. A mess of torn intestines glistened within the gaping wound in her belly.

This trow should have died several times over, and yet here she was. Her face twisted into a terrifying grin, revealing large, pointed teeth.

An enormous clawed fist descended upon him.

Garrain snapped awake, limbs flailing. The echo of his moan lingered on the cool night air. He felt a stirring behind him. Warm, smooth hands ran across his chest.

“What’s wrong?” asked Nuille groggily.

“Nothing, my light,” said Garrain. “Just a nightmare. Go back to sleep.”

He rolled over to face his alvesse and kissed her gently on the forehead, feeling her relax in his arms. Eyes drooping, she murmured something unintelligible. Moments later, she was snoring softly.

For Garrain, sleep remained elusive. Before dawn broke, he disentangled himself from Nuille, threw on some old clothes and snatched up his quarterstaff. He rolled open the door of his modest housetree, and stalked out into the night.

Walking the silent path to the sparring grove, he took little heed of his surroundings. The grove was deserted, save for a pair of wood chirruks perched on a corner of the pavilion.

Approaching one of the battered straw alvars beneath the azurinth trees, he raised his quarterstaff and began to swing at it. Slowly at first, and then with increasing fervour. It wasn’t long before he’d worked up a sheen of sweat, despite the cool mildwinter air. His muscles burned and he gasped for breath, yet still he kept swinging.

Stronger. He had to become stronger.

With that thought came the familiar bitter aftertaste. A fistful of fivedays prior, it would have taken but a trickle of essence and a drop of simmerwood sap to reduce this straw alvar to smoking ruin.

And now he was beating it with a stick.

The quarterstaff Garrain swung at the dummy was just a stick; magically hardened, yet otherwise mundane. No more use to a spellslinger than a lump of dirt. Less, in truth, because fertile soil could be used as a reagent to empower some spells. Insert a sliver of arlium in the tip, and this unassuming length of wood might become the other kind of staff; the magic kind. But it would never channel his magic.

The magic of a greenhand was bound to a very specific focus; an object of power, blessed with the sacred arlium. Some greenhands chose for their focus a wand. Others, a staff.

For Garrain, there had been no question as to which path he’d take. He’d been a nestling with just one span and nine to his name when his father passed into the Vale of Echoes, and the veteran keeper’s battered old witherbark staff had become his. Its name was Ruinath, and it had been in his family since the time of his greatfather, Undain the Eversmile. A remnant of his father’s magic lingered within the staff after his death, and it had brought Garrain comfort and strength through the long and lonely years of his fledging.

At the dawning of his fourth span, fresh from the spell trials, Garrain had bound his magic to Ruinath, claiming the old staff as his own. The ancient wood, pitted and burned by age and strife, had flexed and shifted and grown anew beneath his shaking fingers.

Binding his magic in this way had availed to him a steady flow of essence, stretching all the way to the crown of Arbor Mundi, where Abellion the Arbordeus sat atop his shining throne. Within its gnarled wood, Ruinath held a piece of himself, joining the residue of those who had held it before him. Garrain had used the staff to great effect, mastering magic beyond his years, and quickly rising within the ranks of the Wengarlen greenhands.

Until the day Ruinath had been stolen from him, along with his reputation, and very nearly his life.

Again his thoughts returned to the deusdamned monster who haunted his dreams at night. Had she even known what it was she took from him? No, of course she hadn’t. She was a trow. Trows didn’t have the wits to know such things. Not even the females; larger, wilier and less predictable than their male kin.

Then again, the monster he’d fought on the Scarberry Greenway had been an aberration; an anomaly. Everything she’d done had defied his expectations, starting from the moment he’d found her clinging to a tree on the side of the greenway, feigning meekness. What kind of trow did that? It shouldn’t have even been possible for a trow to even be on a greenway. In the end, she’d adroitly outmanoeuvred Garrain and reduced his companion, Tuleon, to a blundering dunce.

Given everything that had happened, perhaps he was being overly presumptive about the trow’s wits, or lack thereof. But no matter her intent, the result was the same. Without Ruinath, Garrain couldn’t even muster the essence to bring forth a single fire gnat.

In the days immediately following his loss, it had felt as though his life were over. Without magic, what was he? Just another wretched mundane; not particularly strong or fast or skilled at anything.

Garrain had never been ordinary before. At four spans and seven—barely an adult by the standards of his people—he was the youngest person in Wengarlen to be admitted into the ranks of the keepers: an elite order of greenhands tasked with protecting Laskwood from enemies within and without.

What a mockery that title had seemed to him after his encounter with the trow. He’d failed in his basic duty as a keeper. The trow’s toy, the other keepers called him, and not always behind his back. He sometimes wondered if the words would be engraved on his epitaph.

Unable to draw upon his magic, his combat prowess—the quality by which all keepers were measured—had been woefully inadequate. As a greenhand, he’d dedicated himself to honing his mind and his magic, and had little time left over to practice with blade or bow. Oh, he’d swung Ruinath at a sparring partner on occasion, just to keep his body in some semblance of fighting shape. But he’d lacked the skills and instincts and muscle mass of a dedicated weapon master.

That had needed to change, and fast. Circle tradition dictated that a keeper foolish enough to lose his focus had five seasons—little more than half a year—to retrieve it and regain his magic, or he’d lose his title, and all that came with it. The trow wasn’t going to just hand Ruinath over to him; he needed to take it by force of arms. While there was always a chance his foe might meet her end at the tip of someone else’s spear, Garrain hungered to deliver the killing blow himself.

And so each morning before dawn he came to the sparring grove. If he couldn’t call upon his magic to get the job done, he’d resolved to learn to fight by other means. He’d do whatever it took to improve his speed and strength and skill with weapons. And that meant—among other things—getting up early to hit things with a stick.

With a loud thunk, his quarterstaff struck, and the sack around the faux alvar’s head burst open, scattering straw across the leaves at his feet.

“Now if it isn’t Garrain, slayer of straw alvari!” said a deep voice behind him.

Garrain turned to face the tall, heavily-muscled alvar striding toward him, a claymore slung over one shoulder: Thiachrin, blademaster, battle trainer and caretaker of the sparring grove. Before he lost his magic, Garrain had known the blademaster only by reputation, but in the days since then, Thiachrin had taken him on as a student in the art of melee combat, and Garrain had grown to respect this alvar above all other mundanes.

“Don’t fret overmuch, fledgling,” Thiachrin had told him. “Now you’re free of all those fancy spells, and the false pride that comes with them, you can learn how to really fight. Prove to me you have the heart of a warrior, and I’ll guide you along the path.”

Garrain must have done something right, because Thiachrin hadn’t banished him from his sight, as he did to so many prospective students.

“My apologies, blademaster,” said Garrain, gesturing to the now-headless training dummy. “I’ll have it replaced.”

“It’s quite alright,” said Thiachrin. “That’s what they’re here for. Now put that toy away and grab a real weapon.”

Garrain bit back the retort on the edge of his tongue: All weapons are toys compared to magic spells. Thiachrin was ever dismissive of Garrain’s favoured melee weapon, the quarterstaff. It was the only weapon he’d had any real experience wielding as a greenhand, and should he regain Ruinath, it’d once again be his most valuable proficiency.

But the first time he’d asked what Thiachrin considered a real weapon, the blademaster had looked at him as though he was not all there, and said, “A blade, fledgling! What do you think this is? A nestling stick fight?” And ever since then, if the weapon he held didn’t have an edge to it, Thiachrin would refuse to spar with him.

Beneath a pavilion at the edge of the grove was a rack of battered weapons, from daggers, short swords and hand axes to pikes and great swords as tall as he was. Garrain didn’t hesitate before picking up a glaive. It was a long polearm with a hefty blade on the end; suitable for slicing limbs or heads off trows before they could get close enough to pulverise him. Of all the bladed weapons he’d trained with, this was his favourite.

“Good,” said Thiachrin. “Now let’s see what you’ve learned since last we sparred together…”

Circling each other, they traded blows, slowly at first, but with increasing fervour. As usual, Garrain struggled to find any flaws in Thiachrin’s defences, while the blademaster didn’t initially press his advantage. Inevitably, master began to outpace student, until it took all of Garrain’s skill and strength just to defend against the withering blows. Then the moment came when Thiachrin darted forward and placed the edge of his sword against Garrain’s throat.

“You let me slip behind your guard too easily,” chided Thiachrin. “Let’s try that again.”

The lesson continued past first light and the lifting of fog, and into the morning, when the other novices arrived at the sparring grove. Most of them were training to be wardens and rangers: the alvar who formed the not-so-illustrious ranks of Wengarlen’s mundane guards, hunters and scouts. Thiachrin had the novices pair off against each other, and only occasionally stepped in to correct flaws in their technique and demonstrate new moves and tactics. When a lengthy eclipse interrupted the day, he’d snuff out the lamps and have them fight blind.

By now, Garrain could handily beat the other novices in single combat—all save Onduon, Thiachrin’s grandson, a tall alvar skilled with bow and shortsword, whom Garrain had only defeated once. Thiachrin was on an entirely different level than his students, however. For a mundane, he was formidable indeed. Last fiveday, Garrain had watched him fight three veteran wardens at the same time—and win.

Despite the aches and bruises he acquired, and another humiliating defeat against Onduon, Garrain enjoyed the sparring sessions immensely. His balance and coordination had improved remarkably quickly, by Thiachrin’s admission. Garrain had come far since those first days, when he’d spent most of his time on his back with sword or dagger at his throat, returning to Nuille each night a quivering mess of cuts, scrapes and bruises.

There had never been something Garrain couldn’t do when he set his mind to it. This would be no different. He’d face the trow with weapon in hand, and take back what was his.

After a quick bath in the communal pools, Garrain limped to the tenders’ tree. There he found Nuille kneeling beside Tuleon, who lay on a bed of roots, eyes closed. Nuille held a wand to the unconscious alvar’s head. It gave off a pale glow as she whispered words of healing into his ear.

“Any improvement?” asked Garrain.

“No talking!” said Nuille, without looking up from her brother’s limp form. “Why won’t this fucking…” The light on her wand began to flicker and fade. “Fuck!” Blinking up at Garrain, her expression slowly shifted from frustration to chagrin.

“That’s a ‘no’ then, I presume?” said Garrain.

“I just don’t know,” she said, letting out a weary sigh. “I never thought I’d be saying this, but…I wish I could see what’s going on inside my brother’s head. I’m afraid there may truly be nothing in there. What if I’ve been tending a living corpse?”

“You’re helping just by being here for him,” said Garrain, trying to sound more reassuring than he felt. “If anyone can restore him to the waking world, it’s you.”

Bad as the fight with the trow had been for Garrain, it had been worse for Tuleon. The young grawmalkin trainer had barely gathered his wits after the first devastating blow the trow had delivered to his head, when the second one came. Nuille’s magic had stemmed the bleeding inside his skull, but the damage already done to his mind seemed beyond anyone’s ability to heal. And if Tuleon did eventually awaken and regain his wits, it would be to the knowledge that he'd lost his most beloved grawmalkin, Harondi.

Nuille gave another sigh and finally lowered her inert wand from her brother’s head. Eyeing the bruises on Garrain’s face and arms, she said, “A few less than yesterday. Does that mean you’re making progress?”

“Indubitably,” said Garrain. “Thiachrin says I’ve advanced from mewling malkin to meandering maladroit. Any day now, I believe I’ll attain the vaunted rank of mediocre myrmidon.”

Nuille’s face broke into a bemused half-smile. “That’s…good, I hope? But if I might offer a suggestion, try not to hit their knees with your balls next time.”

“You wound me, my light,” said Garrain.

Again, her eyes ran down his body. “Not as much as they did.”

Garrain’s thoughts turned serious. “I feel I must apologise once again for bringing all of this down upon you, Nuille. Upon both of us. What happened to Tuleon was my failing almost as much as it was his own. That trow should not have been able to get the better of me.”

“Oh not this again.” Nuille gave a long-suffering sigh. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault. The two of you just had a very bad day. And you told me what happened in the end. You’re a hero, ardonis, for putting his life ahead of your own. By some miracle, you survived. That’s the greatest gift I could have asked for.”

By some miracle, indeed. Garrain still couldn’t fathom why the trow had absconded with their belongings, instead of simply eating them. Eating their flesh, that is—not their belongings. Or perhaps eating both at the same time. Trows weren’t known for being finicky about their food.

And as for the act of ‘heroism’ she mentioned, he felt conflicted. He often wondered what would have happened if he’d simply let Tuleon be torn apart against his bristling barrier.

“Most keepers would call what I did an act of weakness—forfeiting victory for what seemed at the time a futile attempt to save a companion,” he said. “Were it any other trow, that action would have traded one death for two. Or—Abellion forgive me—the monster may yet go on a rampage through an unguarded settlement, and then those deaths will be on my conscience.”

“I don’t care what other keepers would say,” insisted Nuille. “I’m not a keeper. And I say what you did was heroic.”

“You’re more than I deserve, my light,” said Garrain. “I made so many other avoidable mistakes. I’m not going to make those same mistakes next time I face the trow. And there will be a next time. But first, I need to learn to fight like Thiachrin. I need to…become…harder.”

“You were plenty hard enough last night.” Nuille flicked him a sultry smile.

“You know what I mean,” said Garrain. “This is important to me. And I know it’s important to you. If I lose my status as keeper, we’ll no longer be welcome in the sacred pools. I know how much you want our firstborn to be a greenhand…”

One of the privileges of Garrain’s rank was that once every fiveday he and Nuille could visit the sacred pools beneath the beating heart of Wengarlen, the seed of life; one of the great worldseeds said to have sprouted from the branches of Arbor Mundi when this world was but a tiny sapling. Only those conceived under the glow of a worldseed would stand a good chance of being born with magic flowing through their veins. The seed of life granted one of those branches of magic: that of a greenhand.

The elders of the Wengarlen Circle didn’t allow just anyone into the sacred pools. Access was limited to the immediate families of male greenhands of sufficient rank. As long as Garrain remained a keeper (and as long as Nuille took precautions whenever they coupled away from the pools) there was a good chance their firstborn would be a greenhand, just like his parents.

But if Garrain should lose his title, they’d be cut off from the one true source of green magic. There were other worldseeds, but they yielded different magics.

To the south, beyond the inhospitable swamplands known as the Illerenes, was the seed of knowledge, jealously guarded by the oracles of Fellspur. Even though they were Wengarlen’s closest neighbours in possession of a worldseed, Garrain knew little about the oracles; such was their veil of secrecy.

In the Pillar of Strife off the shore of the Arnean Sea to the northwest hung the seed of storms, long ago claimed by the mer. Fierce though they were, the tempests born from that ancient tower were but pale shadows of the terrifying elementalists of ages past.

These were just the closest worldseeds that Garrain knew of. There were others scattered across and beneath Ciendil, and perhaps other branches too. So yes, there were many different paths to magic power. And Thiachrin proved that one could be powerful without a flicker of magic. But both Garrain and Nuille still had their hearts set on a greenhand nestling.

Nuille met his gaze. “Of course, ardonis. I know only too well what we stand to lose. I’ll support you in any way I can. Just don’t get hurt too badly, alright?”

“That’s your purpose, beloved tender,” said Garrain. “If I come to you, broken and bloody, you can wave your wand and revitalise my torn flesh.”

Nuille frowned. “You mean you only married me for my magic?”

“There were, perhaps, some other reasons…” said Garrain.

Sadly, this was neither the time nor the place to show his resplendent alvesse how much he appreciated her other qualities. At her insistence, Garrain sat while she healed the worst of his bruises, then he left her to her work, and wandered through the Circle gardens to the armoury.

There, he requisitioned some leather armour, a bone dagger, a bow and a quiver of arrows. Sparring with Thiachrin had convinced him that he couldn’t rely on a single weapon alone. He’d conceal the dagger inside his armour as a nasty surprise for anyone or anything who got too close to him in a fight.

When Garrain asked the quartermaster if he had any special advice for slaying a trow, the wiry alvar replied simply, “Lop off its head. Or set it on fire.”

“Could I do both?” asked Garrain. “Douse a blade in oil and set it ablaze, so that it cuts and burns at the same time?”

“Deus no!” said the quartermaster. “That only works in stories. In the real world, you’d just burn yourself and everything around you. And forget about flaming arrows, despite what you may have heard. They don’t fly true, and they don’t fly far. You’d be lucky to hit anything that isn’t standing still.”

“What would you suggest then?” asked Garrain.

“You could ask Ifilwen, the forge master,” said the quartermaster. “He works with some rare materials that you won’t find anywhere else in Wengarlen. Perhaps he can forge something that does what you want. But he’ll demand a heavy price in coin.”

Coin was not a problem for Garrain; not as long as he drew a keeper’s stipend and lived modestly. Time was his enemy, not money. If this Ifilwen could shape a weapon that could give him the upper hand over the trow, it’d be worth almost any price.

Garrain hadn’t set foot in the forge burrows before, and for good reason. It was as though a portion of the Underneath had risen inside Wengarlen. A gaping hole in the ground was ringed by stone-faced wardens. Within the pit, smoke billowed from angry red furnaces and kilns, attended by a gaggle of sweaty dwarrow slaves. The scraping of saws against wood and bone was joined by the staccato beat of hammers on iron. Everywhere he looked were dour, bearded faces. The foul stench of sooty, unwashed bodies filled the air.

After some fruitless wandering, Garrain asked one of the dwarrows where his master was. The dwarrow scowled and pointed to a small chamber at the far end of the burrows. Rolling aside the door, he stepped into the room.

There, he stood frozen, shocked at what he was seeing.

A female dwarrow was chained to a large iron wheel suspended on the wall, her arms and legs splayed. She had cuts and bruises and burns all over her body, and a pattern of old scars that told a story he’d rather not have witnessed. Her purple and swollen face was set with an implacable expression. A promise of…what…? Revenge?

Facing the dwarrow with a bloody wand in hand was Ifilwen, the forge master. Garrain had seen him wandering the Circle grounds from time to time, but never like this. Ifilwen whirled to face Garrain, eyes burning with incandescent rage. “Get out!” he ordered.

“What…” Garrain swallowed back his reply. He’d been about to say, “What are you doing to that dwarrow?” But on second thought, he didn’t want to know the answer to that. A master could lawfully do to his slaves whatever he wanted. It wasn’t his place to interfere.

After a moment, he found his voice again. “I…ah…came to enquire if you’re able to forge any—”

“Can’t you see I’m busy?” snarled Ifilwen. “I’ll meet you out in the pit when I’m ready, and not a moment before. Now begone!”

Trying to ignore the slave’s accusatory glare, Garrain backed out of the room and closed the door behind him. A row of dwarrows regarded him with sullen eyes as he waited by the door. There was dead silence, save for a telltale whisper of magic on the air. The female dwarrow—presumably the recipient of whatever spells Ifilwen cast—uttered no sounds that could be heard through the walls.

A short while later, Ifilwen emerged from the room. He glared at the dwarrows. “What are you looking at, burrowers? Get in there and clean her up!” Then he turned to Garrain, his face softening to a look of mild irritation. “Now, what is it you wish of me?”

Barely trusting himself to speak, Garrain finally managed to convey his request.

“Trows, eh?” said Ifilwen. “Recently I perfected a bone alloy that has just the properties you’re looking for. A spellshaped blade forged from this material will burn what it strikes without creating any flames, and without losing its edge.”

“That sounds promising,” said Garrain. “You said ‘bone alloy.’ What precisely does that mean?”

“Hah!” said Ifilwen. “You’re a fool if you think I’d share my recipes with any random imbecile who asks. All you need to know is that the shaping of this weapon will not be cheap.”

Garrain sighed. “How long will it take, and what is the price?”

“That depends on what type of weapon you want shaped,” said Ifilwen.

“How about a glaive with a wooden pole, and a blade covering about half its length?” asked Garrain.

“A wooden pole attached to a blade that burns what it touches. What a brilliant idea! Why didn’t I think of that? No, dullard, the pole will need to be made of sturdier stuff than simple wood.”

Garrain glared at the ill-mannered alvar. “Very well. How long and how much?”

“A fiveday, no sooner. And as for the price…”

He left the forge burrows filled with conflicting emotions. The price he’d settled on was, as expected, outrageous—it might have paid for a small housetree out in the fringes—but that wasn’t what he was ambivalent about. He’d gladly pay any sum within his means, if it’d help him slay the trow. No, what had his nerves in a jumble was the scene he’d walked in on. It had shaken him far more than he’d realised at the time. The look on that dwarrow’s face; he couldn’t get it out of his head.

That night, when he told Nuille about the incident, she said, “It sounds horrible, but…she was just a slave. And a dwarrow slave at that. One of our enemies. I don’t think there’s anything you can do to ease her plight. Not without jeopardising everything we have. Please tell me you’ll leave this be, ardonis. You already have enough to worry about.”

“Who said anything about easing her plight?” said Garrain. “I’m not a simpleton. I was merely disconcerted to discover such depravations occurring within the Circle walls.”

Despite his exhaustion, he slept fitfully, and dreamed it was himself on the wheel, being slowly flayed alive by the trow.

Being magically crippled didn’t entirely exempt Garrain from his duties as a keeper. The following fiveday, at the elders’ behest, he went with Jevren and his ranger companion, Caelach, to clear a mirkvire lair near Sorwell. Jevren was one of the most senior keepers in Wengarlen, and one of the few who hadn’t belittled Garrain in recent days. His company was not intolerable.

Thanks to his recent training sessions with Thiachrin, Garrain could at least hold his own against the mirkvire with a blade, and he managed to fell four of them.

“The blademaster hasn’t been wasting his time with you, I see,” said Jevren when the deed was done. “To be frank, I expected little from you today, but colour me surprised, young keeper. There may be hope for you yet. If you need a spellflinger at your back when the time comes to face the trow, you may call on me.”

It felt good to be useful again, even if he remained a shadow of his former self. Even better, he had a potential ally in the battle to come.

No sooner had he stepped in the gate when a messenger scrike brought word that his new weapon had been completed. Garrain returned to the forge burrows with some trepidation, wondering what he might walk in on this time. He found Ifilwen leaning against a wall, looking haggard and worn—and angry as always.

“What is it?” snapped Ifilwen, before a gleam of recognition entered his eyes. “Ah yes, yes, your glaive.”

He led Garrain to a rack, within which was slotted one of the most beautiful—and deadly—weapons Garrain had ever seen. The pole was wrought from a pale silvery material that he couldn’t identify. The intricate engravings along its length bore a hint of dwarrow design, though Garrain was no scholar of such things. The blade was an elegant curve of cream-coloured bone, with a gleam of something more lurking beneath its surface. Garrain found himself reaching for the blade, before pulling back at the last moment.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Ifilwen. “One of my slaves lost two fingers testing its edge.”

Ifilwen pressed a small stick against the side of the blade. It didn’t burst into flames as Garrain expected. But when Ifilwen lightly tapped the sharp edge, the stick broke into two pieces, and Garrain saw that one end of each piece was blackened where it had come into contact with the blade.

“It only sears along the edge,” said Garrain.

“Indeed,” said Ifilwen. He handed a dark scaly scabbard to Garrain “Keep this around the blade when you’re not wielding it, so you don’t accidentally slash and burn yourself.”

“The scabbard can bear the heat of the blade?” asked Garrain.

Ifilwen inclined his head in affirmation. “The inner lining is stitched with the hide of a deepworm. Short of molten arlium, nothing could burn through it.”

“This is a magnificent weapon,” said Garrain, carefully lifting the glaive. It was surprisingly light.

“One of my finest,” said Ifilwen.

Garrain brought the weapon to the sparring grove, and proceeded to slice a faux alvar in half with a single swipe. Smoke poured from blackened straw.

“Ifilwen does good work,” said Thiachrin. “A colossal cockface, but one of the best smiths south of the Arnean Sea.”

“I suspect, in truth, it is his slaves who do the good work,” said Garrain.

He named the weapon Trowbane. A rather unimaginative name for such a unique weapon, but its purpose couldn’t be more plain.

That night, Garrain and Nuille were engaged in some ardent coupling when a horn sounded across the Circle. They froze, clutching one another.

“Call to arms,” muttered Garrain.

The horn sounded again.

Cursing, he pulled away from his alvesse, snatched up Trowbane and went outside to investigate.

Again came the blast of the horn, and now he could hear distant shouting and ear-curling screams from the west, drawing closer with each heartbeat.

“Put your armour on, ardonis!” called Nuille from the doorway.

“No time,” he called back. “Seal the door shut and stay inside. Whatever’s happening, it’s headed our way!”

Quickly, he ducked into the shadows, and was relieved to see Nuille taking heed and rolling the door closed.

By flickering lamplight, he saw them come. Small figures stalked through the trees, bearing a motley assortment of weapons and tools, from swords and hammers to picks and shovels.

His first thought was, Dwarrow raiding party? But no, not with that equipment. They’ve risen from the forge burrows, he realised. It’s a slave insurrection!

Then he saw a group of alvari wardens with heavily dented armour shuffle into view. What were they doing with the dwarrows?

And was that…Ifilwen in their midst?

Yes, he was sure of it! The forge master had a vicious gash across his face, and he stared vacantly ahead as he walked. Why would Ifilwen help free his own slaves? That didn’t make any sense!

One of Garrain’s neighbours stepped up to the approaching throng. Get back, you halfwit! Garrain wanted to shout, but he dared not reveal himself.

“Where are you taking those—” His neighbour’s words were abruptly cut off by a spear through the brain, thrust by one of the leading dwarrows. Silently, he collapsed in a heap. They stepped around the body without slowing their advance. A moment later, another figure rose up in the midst of the pack—that of Garrain’s neighbour, his eyes as dead as Ifilwen’s.

Garrain mouthed a silent curse. What abomination is this…?

Suddenly, three of the dwarrows vanished in a cloud of billowing smoke. It took a moment for him to realise what had happened. A greenhand! But where…?

With icy dread, he turned back to his housetree, where Nuille stood at one of the upper windows, wand in hand, already calling forth another bolt of amber liquid.

The spell she channelled, scorching sap, had been one of Garrain’s favourites, though it hadn’t done him much good against the trow, who’d possessed an uncanny ability to dodge or resist every spell he’d hurled at her.

But Nuille was no combat greenhand. She was a tender. Where had she even learned to cast that spell?

From me, realised Garrain. She’s seen me practising on many an occasion.

Chaos erupted as the dwarrows and the dead scattered, and several of them surged toward the housetree. Oh deus, what have you done, Nuille?

Garrain charged out to meet the two alvari and a dwarrow who had started climbing up the walls to the window where Nuille stood ashen-faced, her spell forgotten.

It’s not just dead alvari, he realised, glimpsing splashes of red within the dwarrow’s eye sockets.

Then his glaive swept through the dead things’ legs, sending them tumbling to the ground, wisps of smoke rising from instantly cauterised wounds. Still they clawed at him on hands and knees, so he hacked and sliced until they fell beneath him and did not move.

“Behind you!” cried Nuille.

He turned just in time to block a sword swung clumsily by another dwarrow. Living or dead, he couldn’t tell. The dwarrow was certainly dead by the time Garrain was done with him.

The rest of the throng had charged off in another direction. If they’d thrown everything they had at him, he’d be dead and running alongside them by now, and so would Nuille. But killing wasn’t their main goal; that much was plain. They only killed those who got in their way. Their goal was to escape.

Garrain exchanged a wordless look with Nuille. Her eyes told him everything he needed to know. She was deeply shaken, but she’d cope without him for a while. He turned and dashed through the trees, heading toward the outer gates.

By the time he caught up with the knot of dwarrows and dead alvari, he was too late to help the line of wardens who had rushed to intercept them.

The wardens were highly skilled but few in number, and their foes hard to vanquish with mundane weapons. It wasn’t long before they’d begun to fall. And once killed, the wardens clambered to their feet—or their hands and knees in some cases—and with blades and gauntlets and spiked helms they’d turned on their erstwhile comrades.

It was in these final moments of chaos that Garrain spotted her. Stepping between the risen alvari and dwarrows was one who wasn’t doing any fighting; who wasn’t even carrying a weapon.

It was her. The dwarrow he’d seen being tortured by the forge master. Her face was one big bruise, yet still he could see the implacable force behind her eyes.

She’s commanding them, he realised.

Following from a safe distance, Garrain watched as the knot of dwarrows and alvari continued onward to the Circle gates, where a trio of wardens rushed to block their path—and were immediately overrun.

Then came arrows and bolts of magic from atop canopy towers, and finally enough carnage was being wrought upon the risen dead that they did not rise again.

Only then did Garrain find the courage to attack. Uttering a wordless cry, he charged the gathered dead and swept Trowbane around in a wide arc. Smoke billowed from severed limbs, as bodies fell around him. The stench made him gag, but still he fought on. Or rather, chopped on, for they weren’t fighting back. Not any longer.

As the last of the dead fell, he glimpsed a small form dashing into the trees far beyond the walls, unseen by any eyes but his. He did not pursue her.

Garrain stood amidst the corpses for endless heartbeats, slowly gathering his wits.

“Sarthea’s third nipple!” came a startled exclamation. He looked up and saw that it was Thiachrin, flanked by Onduon and another of his students. “What happened here, fledgling?”

Wearily, Garrain just stared off into the distance, unable to think of an answer that made any sense.

“Well it’s over now, and I missed it,” said Thiachrin with a sigh. “You’re a frightful mess. Go take a bath. And while you’re at it, take three.”

Garrain looked down at himself, clad only in blood and mud and soot.