Basnra’s spies had learned that not all the Dwarves had escaped or been killed defending the fortress, many had been captured and imprisoned. One Dwarf in particular, Basnra had learned, still lived and she was the last hope of reuniting the Mountain Kings and halting the advance of Tarmouth and his armies.
It was imperative that he rescued the Mastersmith.
The hot sun was high in the sky by the time Basnra’s cart reached the battle-scarred main gate. He was stopped, but his forged paperwork passed a cursory inspection and the reek from the barrels of well-rotted dragon manure in the back of the cart afforded him a speedy pass into the city.
He manoeuvred the cart through broken streets, away from where Tarmouth’s soldiers prowled, until he found a quiet, shadowy spot where he stopped. He heaved one of the barrels off and watched it smash on hard ground. Climbing down, Basnra reached inside the barrel and retrieved a long, leather-wrapped package. Finally, he smacked the horse hard and sent it bolting down the street. Another barrel tumbled free and smashed as the horse dragged the cart sharply around the corner at the end of the street.
So far, things were going as planned.
As the noise of the cart faded he made his way carefully to an overgrown alcove at the base of Daar Alu’s central keep. After forcing his way behind the foliage he then swept rotting leaf litter away from a storm drain. In the deep shadow he unwrapped his package, revealing a sword, the blade of which glowed faintly in the semi-darkness. The sword made short work of the cover, and a moment later he plunged into the raging waters below.
Working from memory he snaked, ever downwards, through a maze of water-filled tunnels. He paused at one tunnel which cast a faint orange flicker into the darkness and strained his ears against the roaring water. Satisfied that it was silent above, he pulled himself up the slope, emerging into a torch-lit passageway.
He encountered only one guard on his journey into the heart of Tarmouth’s hastily converted prison. The man was taunting a small Dwarven child, chained to a wall. The guard glanced round as Basnra approached but died silently, throat sliced open. Basnra quickly hid the body in the shadows, covering it with straw.
He offered the terrified child a slice of meat from the guard’s plate. The child reached up and he grabbed its arm at the clamp around its wrist. He whispered a short spell and felt the lock come loose in his grip. He hoped this tiny amount of magic would not give him away.
The child whimpered in Basnra’s grasp. He placed his hand across its eyes, silently mouthed another low-powered spell and it slumped forward into his arms. He could not even tell if it was a boy or girl, so emaciated was its body. He threw the limp form over his shoulder and ran deeper into the flickering gloom of keep.
Basnra found the Mastersmith hung like a piece of meat. Her face was swollen, her arms and legs badly bruised. He cut her ropes and lowered her carefully to the ground. ‘What’s that doing here you fool of a wizard!?’ she hissed, staring at the sword. ‘Tarmouth does not believe I don’t know where the sword went and now you have returned it to him…?’
‘We are going to undo the Spell of Binding.’
The Mastersmith’s brow furrowed, a trickle of blood emerging from a wound above her eye. ‘You have discovered a way down to The Great Forge?’ Basnra nodded. ‘Where is the innocent?’
He turned around to show the Mastersmith the gaunt face of the child slung over his shoulder.
‘It’s alive?’
‘Barely. It would be dead in a day or two I think. At least something good will come from this.’
‘That is yet to be seen.’
Beyond the old Dwarven armoury, now Tarmouth’s makeshift prison, Basnra guided them to a hidden crack in the rock from which the armoury had been carved. This was ancient illusionary magic, barely more than a parlour trick, but enough to fool Tarmouth’s Hunters, it would seem. The short passage beyond the crack led to a room full of treasure, but Basnra knew that these treasures were here simply to halt further exploration. He found another hidden crack and the steps down into the deep foundations of the keep to where the Great Forge brooded, forgotten. They found Dwarf Lamps, glimmering, their magic all but exhausted in millennia of constant illumination.
In the gloom he made his way to the anvil in the centre of the cavernous space and carefully laid the child across it.
‘I hope you’re up to this, wizard?’ the Mastersmith said. ‘When we start this casting we will unleash a force that will announce to all who hunt us exactly where we are. No amount of old magic will stop them finding their way here. You have a plan of escape I presume?’
‘Of sorts,’ conceded Basnra. ‘Once the sword is split in two I will invoke an elemental transit.’
‘Are you insane? After this casting you will not have enough strength left to engage in a battle of wills with an elemental.’
‘For what I have planned I will have strength enough.’
‘You are a fool, wizard, but it is too late now. The forge is alive once more, the fires churn in the deep. Let us begin. If we die attempting this at least we will be spared what will follow once Tarmouth has the sword.’
Wizard and dwarf interlocked their fingers around the hilt of the sword and began their incantation in unison. The sword hummed, tip quivering above the child, as if keen to taste the blood of an innocent once more.
They drove the sword downwards, through its heart, deep into the anvil. The blade squirmed, threatening to break loose of their combined grip as it devoured the life force of their offering.
The sword shuddered, their brains confounded by the sensation that their fingers were both aflame and frozen. The cavern reverberated with a howl that emanated from the blade as it pulsed brightly, racing through the spectrum from red to blue.
Basnra’s mind was numb, he was no longer sure if he was still uttering the spell. He was deafened and blinded but still he held on to the weapon which fought his grasp with an ever-increasing ferocity.
Silence.
Wizard and dwarf were hurled away from the anvil, crashing on to the stone floor. Basnra staggered to his feet, retrieving a sword with a blood red blade. It was hot to the touch. He could see the Mastersmith doing the same with a blade of pale blue. The anvil was glowing orange, molten metal bubbled in the hole made by the sword. Of their child sacrifice there was not a trace.
He dragged himself to the anvil, heaving the sword into the air and plunged it into the fiery hole. The fire elemental trapped within the newly forged blade tried to twist itself free. Basnra whispered to it in the Old Tongue that if it did not help them escape he would hold it here until the Dwarf Fire slipped back into the bowels of the earth and the anvil became whole once more, trapping it for Eternity.
The Mastersmith, understanding Basnra’s intent, forced the tip of the Sword of Ice into the bubbling metal. The elemental sword, stung by the heat, convulsed, frost coating the anvil’s surface. The bubbling stopped, molten metal darkening from orange to red.
The Sword of Fire twisted in one final attempt to break free but he would not release his grip. As Tarmouth’s Hunters streamed into the cavern, the Fire Elemental finally submitted to the wizard. They were consumed by elemental fire and when the Hunters stopped shielding their faces from the heat their quarry was gone.
Basnra lay with his back pressed into the snow that capped the mountains of the Highlanders’ domain. The Mastersmith stood over him, the Sword of Ice gripped tightly. The elemental trapped in the steel still refusing to submit.