Between Honor & Glory Read online

  Bizlow lifted a broad-headed maul with a haft as long as his arm. "Blood of the Earth – Thunderhead!" He turned the sledge to inspect it from all angles. "I'd heard rumors Ryhaab had filched Thunian's Hammer from the armory!"

  "We'd best leave now and return it to Thunian, then," Martyn suggested, hoping Bizlow would be satisfied and leave before Sisspahn came back.

  "Yer a goat-headed fool!" Bizlow scowled. "Thunian is the God of Storms – he's got no more need for this hammer than an ogre's got need of a looking glass to know it's ugly! And I certainly won't leave Ryhaab lying here in unhallowed filth!"

  Bizlow upended a chest of coins and packed in his brother's remains. Martyn watched the morbid family reunion in silence, shivering from cold and from fear that Sisspahn must soon return.

  When he was done, Bizlow hefted the sledge again and slammed it down to crack a boulder the size of a pony. He held the hammer overhead. "Sisspahn's bones will shatter just like that! This is the most powerful weapon in the Ironbone's armory! I'd not trade it for a hundred dragon-slaying arrows and a hundred elven archers to shoot them."

  "Forgive me for saying so," Martyn called down, "but Ryhaab had the hammer too, and his bones sit packed in that box."

  "He must have been caught unawares. Thunderhead has far greater power than ye know."

  Bizlow slid his grip to the end of the haft and spun around, the hammer rising to shoulder level as his momentum increased. On the fourth revolution he released the hammer with a roar and stumbled to the ground. The hammer sizzled through the air like lightning and struck the cavern's ceiling with a thunderous crack. Chunks of stone rained down.

  Martyn shielded his eyes from falling gravel. When he opened them again, Bizlow stood with the sledge back in his hand and a smile on his face.

  "You see, Martyn, no dragon could withstand that kind of—"

  An impossible roar drowned Bizlow's voice as a huge shape swooped through the hole in the ceiling. The cavern shook as the dragon landed; coins and jewels sprayed out, pelting Bizlow like a company of slingers.

  Martyn froze in terror as Bizlow scrabbled up the path toward him. The dragon crouched in the center of the cavern, deep-set yellow eyes glaring from the shadows of spiky ridges. Mooralum had judged Sisspahn ten-times his size with no exaggeration. The two were similar in appearance, as a salamander is similar to a crocodile. Sisspahn's body was covered with scales like frozen diamonds, sharp and severe where Mooralum's was smooth and graceful.

  A guttural laugh invaded their minds, and then a sinister, hissing voice like hot coals doused with water. "Did you know an enemy is most vulnerable when he turns to flee? But alas, you can't be blamed. They all run."

  Its rhythmic, slithering pace mesmerized as it stalked closer.

  "Your brother ran, dwarf. I seem to recall he was quite fast for such a stumpy little squirrel. And quite tasty too!"

  Halfway up the path, Bizlow skidded to a halt. "Then you'll remember this," he roared as he threw the hammer. But there was no room on the path to spin as he had on the cavern floor, and the hammer did not hiss through the air like before, though it still struck Sisspahn a shuddering blow that buckled its legs.

  The hammer circled back to Bizlow, but just as there was no room to properly hurl the weapon, there was no room to catch it either. The returning sledge knocked Bizlow into the stone wall. Hammer and dwarf dropped to the path.

  Sisspahn shook off its daze. Its scaly jaws twisted into a sneer of contempt as it resumed its stalking progress.

  Instinctively, Martyn turned toward the passageway, toward escape.

  But then he glanced back over his shoulder at Bizlow, unconscious on the ground. Cursing himself as a fool, Martyn turned away from the exit, away from safety. But he knew he couldn't drag Bizlow up the path before Sisspahn reached them.

  Martyn recalled Mooralum's words: "I knew it was Miertztryke because I saw it in your minds and I felt the magic – natural talents that all dragons share." He realized his only hope lay in using that talent against Sisspahn.

  Martyn pressed the crossbow to his shoulder and roared, "Hold or die!" with all the authority he could muster. "This arrow is Miertztryke – a dragon-slayer!"

  Sisspahn stopped at the word Miertztryke. Its malevolent eyes narrowed. A gaze like molten gold sought Martyn's eyes, but Martyn knew better than to meet that stare directly.

  "I know the sledge possesses Power," Sisspahn hissed into his mind. "Perhaps this casts the aura and not the arrow. How do I know it is Miertztryke?"

  "Why would I carry only one bolt if I required more?" Martyn said.

  And then he felt Sisspahn's consciousness slither into his skull, prying at his memories. He filled his mind with images from the stories of his youth, images of brave heroes slaying dragons, images of he and Bizlow traveling the land and murdering Mooralum and a long list of imaginary dragons with a single strike of a Miertztryke bolt.

  Sisspahn puffed out his scaly chest. "Shoot then."

  Martyn swallowed. He could almost taste all the metal from the coins and rusting armor strewn about the cavern.

  "Truth is, the dwarf is the better archer," Martyn said. "I'm afraid I might miss you from here, and then I know I'm done for. But I'm certain I'd hit you dead-on if you'd just be so kind as to take another step or two forward."

  Sisspahn lifted a leg to take a step.

  Wet reptilian stench stung Martyn's nostrils. His heartbeat thumped in his ears and acid burned up his throat. He tightened his grip on the crossbow and gritted his teeth.

  Sisspahn paused, its leg still held in the air.

  "You may leave," it finally hissed – a command, not an invitation. "But the dwarf stays with me. Leave now!"

  Martyn shook his head. "No. The dwarf comes with me."

  "LEAVE NOW!"

  Sisspahn's shout echoed through Martyn's mind. He wanted to leave, to run away as fast as he could, wanted it more than he had ever wanted anything in his life. But he couldn't leave Bizlow. He couldn't. And he also couldn't afford to let Sisspahn draw him into a debate that would allow the dragon to pry the truth from his mind. He pushed away all thoughts but visions of slain dragons, tiny arrows sticking from scaly hides.

  "No!" Martyn shouted back. "I'll leave you your treasure and your life. Now enough talk. You have until the count of three to back away or we take our chances with my aim."

  Martyn took a calming breath and shouted, "One!"

  Sisspahn cocked its head to the side as if considering; its eyes went from Martyn's to the bolt aimed at its chest.

  "Two!" Martyn focused on the horror in Mooralum's mind upon the realization that the previous bolt was a real dragon-slayer. With all his will he seized on that feeling, letting it flood his consciousness.

  As Martyn opened his mouth to say, "Three", Sisspahn's hissing voice filled his mind.

  "A scrawny human and a gristly dwarf . . . you're not worth the risk. Take nothing but your friend and go before I change my mind." Sisspahn slunk back into the shadows of the cavern with narrowed eyes and a guttural snarl that chilled Martyn's bones.

  Martyn nudged Bizlow with his foot but kept the crossbow, and his thoughts, trained on the yellow eyes glaring from the shadows.

  Bizlow sat up and rose unsteadily. He looked at Martyn with an unfocused gaze, like a drunk woken from a stupor. "What happened?"

  "Some of your damn talk about honor must've sunk in," Martyn said as he steered Bizlow up the path. "That's what happened."

  #

  By the time Bizlow's senses returned they had traveled back through the passage and stood on the brink of the icy slope they'd struggled up earlier.

  "I must return to the cavern," Bizlow said.

  "Your hammer barely hurt the beast," Martyn said. "Do you think you can go back now, with no hammer, and with Sisspahn waiting, and fare better? He won't fall for any tricks this time."

  A faint smile curled Bizlow's mustache. "Ye did well saving yer bluster for someone who
actually believed it!" He shook his head and blew out a misty lungful of frozen air. "But you still don't understand. . . ."

  "Fine! Then I'll go back too. I'll prove to Ashby that I love her, and prove to her father that I'm worthy."

  Martyn spread his arms in appeal and Bizlow promptly shoved him over the brink of the icy slope. Martyn slid helplessly down the ramp, snapping the arrows embedded in the ice as he crashed through them.

  "Slaying a dragon won't impress a woman," Bizlow called down. "Better to step on some ants for her. Remember – it's the little things that count with a woman. And don't worry about her father. You've proven to yerself that yer worthy. And now that you know it, he'll know it too."

  "I'll tell you what I know," Martyn said. "I know you're a pig-headed fool who cares nothing for your life, or the lives of others."

  "I do care," Bizlow said. "That's why you're down there."

  "It's not my life I'm talking about. Suppose you do go back and somehow manage to kill the dragon? What then? What do you think your younger brother will have to accomplish on his Gallivant – fetch the sun out of the sky with his bare hands? He and countless other young dwarves will be killing themselves for decades trying to better your deed! Put a stop to this senseless practice now – that's the most honorable deed you could ever accomplish!"

  Bizlow shook his head, turned, and walked back down the tunnel toward Sisspahn's lair.

  Martyn attempted to re-climb the slope, knowing from the ordeal of their first ascent that it was impossible with most of the arrows broken by his fall. After several failed attempts he lay shivering and defeated at the bottom of the slope. He knew that Bizlow was throwing his life away, but he was right about one thing – the price of honor was high. Hopefully it wasn't too late for him to prove his honor to Ashby and her father.

  #

  An insistent knock at the door woke Martyn from a restless slumber. He hadn't slept peacefully in months – not since leaving Bizlow back in the cavern – his dreams constantly wracked by nightmares of Sisspahn and wonderings about Bizlow's fate. He had no doubt that the fool dwarf was dead, but he couldn't help wondering over and over what he could have done or said to deter him from his ill-chosen fate.

  Martyn rose to answer the door, careful not to wake Ashby or the infant asleep at his side. He hadn't tried to sell his story – hadn't even bothered writing it – it just didn't seem honorable to profit from Bizlow's death. But he hadn't come home empty-handed either – he'd returned with the confidence to stand up to the reeve, claim Ashby's hand, and witness his son's birth.

  "Package for you, sir."

  Martyn accepted the package and shut the door.

  Ashby rubbed sleep from her eyes, their son cradled in one arm. "Martyn, what's that?"

  Martyn unwrapped the package and found Bizlow's plain wooden buckler inside. There was a note as well. Martyn read it aloud.

  "Thanks for helping me see that killing the dragon might've brought me glory, but it would not prove my honor. Luckily, I realized that before I made it back to Sisspahn's lair. I waited until he flew off and then I brought Ryhaab's bones back home in time to prevent my younger brother from following in our older brothers' doomed footsteps. I no longer have need of this shield since bearing Ryhaab and Thunderhead home earned me a new one. Perhaps you can paint your family crest upon this one, and teach your child the difference between honor and glory."

  ###

  About the author:

  Mark Finnemore lives in California with his beautiful wife Panji, who helped him learn that even the rockiest road can lead to a happy ending. Mark is currently working on a novel entitled "Love & Taxes", which he hopes will one day be not only finished, but published and found at your local book store as well.

  Mark has a story included in an upcoming "young adult" anthology entitled Spirited, which is donating all proceeds to 826 National, a non-profit organization dedicated to supporting students ages 6 - 18 with their writing skills, and to helping teachers inspire their students to write.

  Visit Mark at www.mythic-picnic.com or www.genre-trash.com or www.love-and-taxes.com.