Hadran the Northern Prince's Arc

Chapter 2 of 3

Hadran followed the river toward the mountains. The trail of dead grass led him and Tallius to a place where small waterfalls spilled from the rocks. Behind the water hung a dark cave mouth. Green vapor leaked from the gap and curled across the pool. Malachar had gone to ground here. But Hadran still had no way to strike a foe made of mist. "He'll slip away again," Tallius said. "Cutting fog does nothing." "I know," Hadran said. "I need more than my sword." Hooves splashed behind them. Hadran turned, blade up. A dwarf rode from the trees on an armored boar. His red beard held stone beads. He carried a two-handed hammer, and the hammer burned with white light. He stopped and studied the cave without fear. "Tiroc Stouthammer," the dwarf said. "I've tracked this rot for three winters. It killed a whole village in one night. That was his work." He nodded at the cave. "You wounded him." "With elven steel," Hadran said. "He turned to mist and fled." "Steel won't finish him." Tiroc lifted the hammer. The runes on its head glowed brighter. "Light burns corruption. Mist or bone, it burns the same. My weapon does what yours can't." Hadran looked at the burning hammer, then at his own sword. He wanted the kill for himself. He wanted the head to carry home. But pride would let the necromancer escape north to more villages. "Then we go in together," Hadran said. "I hold him. You strike." Tiroc dismounted. "Agreed." They stepped through the falling water into the dark. Cold air pressed on them. Malachar rose from the cave floor, cloak hanging from skeletal shoulders, worms moving on his skull. He raised the rusted scythe. "Two of you now," the necromancer said. "It changes nothing." He swung. Hadran caught the scythe on his blade and shoved it wide. Malachar began to dissolve, his edges thinning into vapor. "Now!" Hadran shouted. Tiroc drove the hammer forward. White fire flooded the cave. It caught the mist before it could scatter and held it in place. The vapor could not sink into the ground. It burned. Malachar screamed, a dry sound, as the light ate through the smoke and the bones inside it. The worms shriveled. The cloak fell empty. The scythe clanged on the stone and lay still. Silence, but for the falls behind them. Hadran breathed hard. The thing that had rotted his lands was gone. Tiroc lowered his hammer and looked at the empty cloak. "That was the servant," he said. "Not the source." "What?" Hadran said. "The rot in your villages. It came from farther north. He carried it. He didn't make it." Tiroc turned toward the mountains beyond the falls. "There's a beast up there. Blighted. It bleeds this sickness into the land. Kill it, and the rot stops." Hadran looked at the snow-capped peaks. His true beast waited there.