Chapter 10
A door swung open soundlessly on well-oiled brass hinges, allowing a faint light from some unknown and distant source to bring only the slightest of illumination to the room the door opened into. A lone figure, tall and lean, walked past the threshold, moving with calculated familiarity to its target. Fingers grasped and then twisted a small knob, and from the barely perceptible blue ember atop a lamp's wick, a tall and brilliant flame now stood, unmoved by any current due to the fluted glass that sheltered it. The room came into focus now, as did its lone occupant. Dressed in a warm robe that reached to mid-shin and was dyed the hue of a summer sky, with a lavender trim of silk, the elf looked about the room carefully, feeling as if he was being watched. When nothing reached his sharp senses he gave a mild shrug and returned to his original task. Grasped in his left hand was a small text, leather-bound and looking to have had a few previous owners who were less than gentle in it. This tome became the elf's focus yet again, sea-green eyes scouring the text in the book with a studious glint, as the right hand blindly yet competently sought out a secondary objective.
Grasping the thin neck of a finely etched glass decanter, the fingers traced upwards and with only the briefest of a struggle, removed the stopper. Casting only the tiniest of glances in that direction to ensure his pouring would not go errant, the deep red liquid trickled into a bell-shaped wine glass, releasing its sweet fragrance into the immediate area. The elf blew away an errant strand of hair from obscuring his vision while he read, the lock a honey blond color, and bearing the sheen of one who kept himself immaculately groomed and was used to being in the public eye. The right hand's task completed, it replaced the stopper and grasped the wine glass by the stem with three fingers, as the body moved over to a chaise and seated itself. Ever obedient, the right hand moved the glass towards the elf's mouth, but then paused halfway to its destination, the elf peering more intently at a particular passage. There was too, a distant noise now, like some faint roar. The elf seemed not to notice, taking a sip of his wine and holding it in his mouth as he continued to read, his brow lightly creased with lines of concentration. The noise grew slightly louder, as if the source grew closer, or simply louder. Still, the lone reader paid it no mind. There was a blurring of the room then, a shifting of the fine oak furniture within, of the bookshelves laden with their multi-hued namesakes. Suddenly, with a sigh, the entire room was swallowed up by a faint orange glow, like that of someone peering through eye lids at a strong source of light. All the way up to the end, the elf did not stir or notice that anything was amiss.
Crys'annadath had sighed. His concentration was broken for the second time that night by the row created by his two erstwhile companions. He was supposed to be keeping an eye on the elven councilman's home and environs while they physically stayed at the smithy of one Thedor Stonesmite, perhaps the most respected and skilled dwarf in Theramore. Extra guards were posted both visibly and hidden around the elven noble's estate, but considering the gruesome ease at which the Kaldorei assassin had slaughtered a compliment of Moon Guard, they would be a time sink, little more. That is, if their quarry was even out and about tonight, her injury likely keeping her convalescing, unless some magical healing was rendered to her. Preparing a preemptive squint against the bright light of the forge, Crys opened his eyes to the same scene he had been treated to when he first arrived.
The smithy was as physically imposing and sturdy as the smith who worked in it, a small table littered with bones and empty mugs, and a rough cot occupying one corner telling the warmage that this was both a dwelling and a workshop. Great slabs of limestone made up most of the structure's walls and floor, chiseled almost with contempt for the weight of the slabs from the rock on which Theramore sat. Worked smooth but left unpolished the slabs were a cloudy grey color, with a tinge of brown, giving the interior a dull, industrial look. The only ornamentation came from the highly-polished weapons and breastplates hung proudly on the walls, gleaming orange in the ruddy glow of the forge fires. Iron chains hung from the ceiling, blackened by years of exposure to smoke and grasping hands, various bits of unfinished armors hanging like inedible slabs of meat from the hooks on the end of them.
The central forge area was a half-circle that ended with the back wall, sunken two steps below the rest of the interior and with about forty feet of area. The rest of the smithy, moving from the back wall towards the door leading to the street, was composed of large work tables set against the outer walls, lined with stools which top could swivel on a corkscrew-threaded shaft, and give the worker access to the equally long line of tool racks that stood like a fence between the worker and the main thoroughfare in and out of the smithy. Stonesmite, apparently, worked into the wee hours of the morning by himself, getting a large number of rough pieces done for refining and more delicate work by others during the day. It also made him the perfect murder target, always alone in the dead of night, mind occupied on the task at hand rather than some flitting shadow.
Not that, if threatened, the smith would be unable to defend himself. The parallels between smithy and smith were many, as Crys had earlier noted. Great slabs of muscle ending in sausage-thick fingers were the best description the slender elf could come up with for his arms, ill-suited for delicate manipulation, but perfect for pounding shapes out of cherry-red metal with a hammer that must weigh as much as a full suit of mail armor. What would take a human smith five blows to flatten out took the dwarven master smith one, and his prodigious strength one of the keys to him being able to work so fast. Dark eyes glittering like beetle carapaces peered out from under bushy black eyebrows, a mouth that was mostly bottom lip nearly lost completely in the mass of black hair that was the smith's beard, unbraided or adorned in anyway, tucked out of the way behind a well-worn leather smock. A bulbous nose and the very tips of relatively small ears poking out from behind head hair rounded out the dwarf's facial "features". Stonesmite's shoulders were easily half-again as wide as Daghmor's, who was apparently something of a light-weight in the dwarven world. The master smith's broad chest was the only thing massive enough to be able to support arms like his, and short, powerful legs kept it all upright. Crys had heard he had fought in all three wars as well, the thought of one such as Stonesmite wearing plate mail like it were billowy silks and swinging an axe with effortless ease must give more than a few orcs pause before engaging such a warrior.
Speaking of war, it was precisely the subject that was the cause of half the din inside the smithy. Daghmor and Thedor were having an argument as heated as the piece of metal the latter worked on about duty to oneself and ones clan.
" The clan is all! It is greater than all the dwarves in it, just as a mail coat is more than just the links that make it up of. If one link fails, then all those attached to it cannot function as they were intended to, creating a fatal weakness, " Thedor argued heatedly, pounding the sheet of steel before him as if he were trying to pound the idea home into Daghmor's head. The darkly dressed dwarf seated on a stool not far from the anvil had crossed his arms and began shaking his head mid-way through Thedor's statement, obviously not in agreement.
" So as long as three out of five dwarves are happy, then everything's just dandy with the clan? How can you expect the same of someone whom the clan has failed and someone who has met with nothing but success? A clan must look after all its parts, or it has failed at what it was created to do. "
More metallic "clangs" as the smith finished off another cuirass and tossed it aside with the others, his voice gaining an edge as hard as the metal he worked with as he seamlessly moved on to his next task.
" The clan cannot control fate, or even a large number of events in its own holdings. A mature, intelligent clansman would recognize and understand this, so that even if things did not turn out for him, he cannot fault every other dwarf who has it better, or lost less than him, and in turn, the clan he belongs to. "
" I am not talking about losing 'less', I am talking about losing 'all', " the rogue countered bitterly.
Thedor paused in his task long enough to give Daghmor an intense stare, seeming to search him for something. Finally, he returned to his task, mute. Crys could see his friend wanting to say something more, his fingers rolling in indecision, but he too, held his tongue for now. What had passed between them the elf could only guess at, though he would likely would find other mental pursuits before delving into that one. He had enough pain regarding family and obligations to deal with for himself.
Crys found he could never really forget his sister, whom he did not know if she was alive, dead, or something in-between. Regret can hide in even the smallest, most trivial of choices made, but the feelings that lurked inside choosing to leave your only blood relation an ocean away in a land steeped in death and plague, that was something altogether more difficult to resolve. Should he have left? Should he have stayed? How would his life had been different? Would he even be alive right now if he hadn't done what he did do? The warmage would often, during evenings of restlessness, look to the moon and the night sky, wondering if, somewhere, his sister gazed upon that same moon, and thought of him in turn. It would be turning to fall in Silvermoon, or the place that once was Silvermoon. The air would nip at exposed skin in the early morning, the carefully tended trees in the Court of the Arcane turning from glossy viridian to a warm rust color.
Crys hadn't seen what had happened to Silvermoon, to all of Quel'thalas for that matter. His own imaginings held up by a skeletal framework of what Rhell'sardessa had told him could paint as heart-rending an image as any that could be witnessed by his eyes. Quel-thalas had suffered centuries of warfare and siege, but the Quel'dorei had fought with such diligence and ferocity that it had withstood them all. They fought because they knew that it was all they had left, a home carved from the troll-ruled wilderness. To surrender that was to break apart, scatter, become not a race of people, but each some sort of isolated aberration, the last few glowing embers of what had once been such a magnificent fire. But, here he was; alone, barely competent at his duties, and listening to two dwarves bicker about loss. How much heavier than the sheets of metal that he worked with would Thedor's heart be, knowing he would likely never gaze upon the ruined halls of Ironforge again, never see them restored. Then, then these dwarves could talk about duty, and of loss. Crys' eyes stung from all of these thoughts about his homeland, the sudden indulgence of self-pity. Bringing his fingers up to pinch the bridge of his nose he clenched his eyelids tightly closed and breathed a deep, calming breath to settle his emotions. In that tiny moment when all the air had left his lungs, in the space of silence between dwarven voices forming words to lob at one another, Crys heard the sound of finely honed metal being drawn from a leather sheath.
" Quiet, " the wizard said, unmoving from his spot. His tone was low enough that he was barely heard by the two stout dwarves, who looked as if they were unsure of the context in which Crys has said the word. Removing his hand from his face and opening his eyes the elf spoke again;
" They're very quiet, very good. "
The attack came almost noiselessly, the only sounds were Daghmor's stool screeching across the stone floor as he rapidly came to his feet, padding footfalls, and an angry grunt from Thedor. Figures departed from the shadows that housed them, blades blackened with sticky oil barely perceptible in the already poor light. Crys had bolted up and moved closer to Dagh, his mind and body responding to the danger with a quickness that was both familiar and relieving. He had been away from battle for so long he was unsure if he could still handle it. He had moved so rapidly from his seat that his short staff with its hidden blade still rested against the wall near where he had seated himself, but Crys was unconcerned. It was a last resort, far from a wizard's preferred method of attack.
There were five distinct figures hanging near the edges of the forge light, the likelihood of there being more behind them remote. Five were more than enough, coupled with the element of surprise, to fell even a warrior such as Thedor. The Kal'dorei was not amongst them either, her tall and lithe form would have been easy to distinguish from the other, obviously human assassins. Her absence made the elf think, in the fleeting moments before the battle was joined, that there had to be something of a time-line to these murders, and their grisly trophies. To attack without their most skilled and efficient killer…either that, or the elven councilman would soon feel her blade. Crys found he could spare little thought about the distant politician's safety, as his own was being immediately threatened.
Two went at Thedor, obviously their primary target, the smith hefting his trusty hammer to defend himself. One chose to engage Daghmor, the leather-clad dwarf more than eager to fight, his blood obviously heated by the argument between Stonesmite and himself. That left the last two for what was likely determined beforehand to be one of the bigger threats: a spell caster. Silent blades wielded by nearly silent men wove through the warm smithy air. Daghmor nimbly ducked under a sweeping cut, his return blow kicked aside, however, by what was proving himself to be a skilled opponent. Stonesmite's hammer kept the two attackers facing him at bay, sweeping back and forth in a potentially bone-shattering arc. The pair of assailants were not foolhardy enough to try to parry or turn aside such a weapon though, any attempt to do so would likely result in a broken sword or a broken wrist. They bided their time, waiting for the smith to get tired or over-extend himself and thrust in for a quick but telling blow against their unarmored target.
Crys' hands wove in a complex, almost seizure-like pattern, and not a moment too soon as a sword thrust aimed for his throat was only just turned away by a flickering blue shield of pure magic that had encased the wizard. The shield only buying just a few more seconds the elf began another spell immediately, this one was quick, however, and required only a sudden out-pushing of Crys' open palms to his sides. A frozen wave of ice burst outwards from under the warmage's boots, leaving him untouched, but the ice wave, extending out to its maximum radius within the blink of an eye, swallowed the first foot of leg on his two attackers, Daghmor's stool…and Daghmor, who uttered curses first in the sudden shock of numbing pain, and then at the fool wizard who had immobilized him while leaving his opponent free to attack. Crys heard none of this, however, his mind focused solely on his next spell, and his target.
A triumphant sneer on the dwarven rogues' opponent quickly changed to shock as, in middle of a two-handed downward cut meant to cleave as much as Daghmor in half as the man's strength would allow, he felt his body shrink and contort, so fluidly and swiftly that there was no time for pain or words. The dark leathers of the man's armor shrank inwards and, almost like some puffy flower rapidly blooming, thick, white wool replaced it. Landing on all fours the human arms and legs did not remain so for long, shrinking both in length and thickness, the fingers and toes fusing and hardening into hooves. With only a few blue-white sparks of lingering magic drifting up from the newly formed sheep's pelt like drifting embers from a bonfire, there was no way to discern that the harmless and utterly confused livestock standing in the smithy was at one time, a dangerous assassin.
Again, a black-bladed sword slashed at the shield around Crys, weakening it further, causing it to flicker like a nearly gutted candle. He had sacrificed moving out of range of their attacks to deal with Daghmor's opponent, and with the magically conjured ice already started to crack and glisten with moisture from the hot forge fire nearby, they would be able to muscle their way free very soon. Allowing himself only time enough to take two long strides back, Crys began another spell, the drain on his mind starting to tell in the form of sweat drops beading up on his face, and his deep, needy breaths of air. This spell would take care of both his attackers though, Crys' hands twisting and rising as he chanted, ready for the sudden downward thrust that would summon the churning column of fire that would reduce his two principle foes to charred skeletons.
Not exactly knowing their fate, the two assassins did recognize the makings of a spell, and made preparations; one quickly retrieved a dagger from a sheath at the small of his back and tossed it end-over-end at the channeling warmage, while his fellow brought his wrist up to his mouth, and, using his teeth, uncorked a small vial that had been secured widthwise along his outer wrist, downing the faintly luminescent fluid within. The elven wizard was caught. He couldn't abandon the spell so near completion, but knew from past experience that the force of a hearty slap would all that would be required to down his shielding after being weakened so. The dagger passed through the shield with barely a wobble, striking Crys in the muscle just above his left collar bone, and sinking in a good inch-and-a-half. The warmage gasped in pain, the magical pattern that was so near it final, destructive genesis suddenly evaporated from his mind, leaving him pained and keenly aware of the renewed threat the two assassins proved to be. With a sudden grunt and a shattering of ice, the lead assassin pulled his legs free of their frozen prison, charging forward across the unsteady surface that was the remnant of the frost nova spell, sword raised for a killing blow.
With a roar of his own, Daghmor burst free of the ice as well, his attack an inelegant but effective tackle at the man's legs, sending the two of them to land painfully on the uneven ice surface, grappling there. The principle threat taken care of for the time being, Crys focused his attentions on the second one who also was moving forward, a murderous glare in his eyes. Requiring immediate damage, Crys concentrated as best his burning shoulder would allow, his fingertips becoming encased in wispy white energy, then dart-sized fragments of the same energy shooting out from his out-stretched hand, as deadly as any bullet fired from a dwarven musket. Crys gaped when the bullets did not pierce armor and flesh, however, but dissipated like snowflakes against hot metal, not harming--or slowing--him in the least. That black sword looked so very much like the incarnation of death itself as it began its unstoppable decent onto the recoiling wizard. That vial he quaffed not moments ago must have absorbed the energy of the spell, giving him the edge he needed to finally put down this troublesome magic-wielder, Crys thought. With a final, split-second movement and burst of magic, Crys flung out his right hand and made a grasping motion. His short staff leaning against the wall quivered and flew towards him as if thrown by a hearty arm, seeking out its place it was summoned to; the elf's palm.
Crys could only credit the many hours of training he had put himself through in his younger years for the reflexes that today spared his life, the wooden shaft that was suddenly in his hand rising to intercept the blade before it could finish its lethal task. The parry was far from perfect, as Crys quickly found out, the awkward angle created by the newly grasped staff, and the slick, rough surface that the assassin stood on turned the sword blade at an angle. The elf's eyes bulged and a shuddering gasp of pain burst past his teeth as he keenly felt a large portion of his little finger leave his hand, thick drops of blood falling from the staff to mingle with the watery ice at his feet. The attacker cared nothing for this, of course, his blade brought back up for another hacking slice. Gritting his teeth and hearing this pulse pounding in his ear, some small part of Crys felt more alive now that he had in years, slowly pickling himself in strong alcohol, pining for his lost life and family. Here and now, he felt like he had back in the prime of his military days, where it was do or die. The situation was dire, to say the least. Even Thedor's mighty arms were beginning to tire, and while having felled one assailant, the other was managing to score small cuts along the smith's arms and hands, weakening him. Daghmor still wrestled with the man he had tackled, the assassin having pulled himself up a bit and was trying to land a solid blow against the dwarf's back with his sword.
Rejuvenated, the warmage pulled himself up to his full height while deflecting another sword strike, Crys curled the fingers on his left hand and then spread them wide as he pushed outwards. A blast of searing flame and wind struck the attacker in the upper torso and face, causing him to scream and stagger backwards, his exposed skin smoking and blackened by the attack. His nostrils flaring with the deep breaths he took in as his lips were pushed into a thin line Crys then turned his attention to the last attacker on Thedor, no protective potion defending the man against this barrage of magical darts, blood erupting from the sudden ruptures in his flesh. Gritting his teeth against the dagger still buried in his shoulder Crys reached down with his left hand and drew the hidden blade out from the staff top with a keen metallic ringing. Adjusting his grip on staff made slick with his own blood the injured wizard lunged at the burned attacker, pushing his floundering blade aside and then performing a rising cut from right to left. The blade dug deeply into the armpit, where nothing but cloth lay, a large spurt of blood telling Crys he had struck a major blood vessel like he had been aiming to. Naturally right-handed, the warmage had made certain that he was trained enough in his off-hand to be effective, a non-functional sword arm a premature death sentence to even a skilled swordsman.
Assured that the burned assassin would bleed out quickly, Crys'annadath at last turned to the one that Daghmor wrestled with, his blade intercepting the dark-clothed man's sword and disarming him with a twist of the handle. Free of the threat of the blade, Daghmor actually chuckled and worked his way upwards, punching the man liberally as he went, until he sat astride the man's chest and was pounding his frustrations out on the flailing man's face. Crys was just turning back to see how Thedor fared when he heard a great 'thud' and the wet cracking of bones still mired in muscle and blood breaking. The mage just caught the end of the polymorphed assassin reverting back into his human form, albeit dead, his back crushed by the smith's great hammer. Sighing at the loss of what would be a healthy prisoner, the elf turned back to where Daghmor continued to pound on the rapidly weakening assassin.
" Keep him alive. We'll see what their leader allowed them to know about their operations in the city, which likely won't be much. "
The dwarven rogue just nodded and continued pummeling.
The floor of the smithy was a mess of watery blood and chunks of ice, Crys' robe around his shoulder plastered to his skin with blood from the dagger, and blood still snaking its lazy way down the staff his injured hand held.
" I thank ye, wizard, " Thedor said suddenly, turning the warmage's attention back to the smith. His arms oozing from a half-dozen cuts and chest rising and falling like a great bellows, Stonesmite offered his meaty hand to him.
" When I first saw you I thought I would be doing most of the fighting if we were attacked. I don't mind being wrong in cases like this. It's been awhile since I've felt the rush of battle stir these old limbs, it was a nice change from pounding out steel all night, " he continued, surveying the carnage much like Crys had just moments before. A small smile worked itself out of the wizard's frown of concentration, and he sheathed his sword back into the short staff's top, about to take the dwarf's offered hand.
" I know what you mean. I haven't engaged in anything this brutal for…many… " Crys began, but suddenly his face felt flush and the room spun around him. His collapse to the floor was unfelt by him, already unconscious by the time his head struck the smithy floor.