Dan Parkinson - Hammer and Axe

“You claim what? ” Tantas stared at him. “Are you . . . do you mean to challenge me?”

“You are challenged,” Damon said.

With a hiss, Tantas muttered, “Mordit tat!” He pointed a stiff finger at the dwarf. “Chapak!”

Instantly a large sword appeared in the air directly in front of Damon and slashed at him. He caught it on his shield, deflecting it, and it disappeared with a pop and a puff of dark smoke.

“Magic,” Damon Omenborn mumbled to himself. “That seemed like a sword. But it was no sword. It was only magic.”

Tantas gaped at the dwarf. “Impossible!” he grumbled. Again he voiced a sharp command, and a steel-tipped arrow drove into Damon’s breastplate, piercing his armor. The impact of it tumbled him backward.

An agony like none he had ever felt tore through Damon, driving the breath from his lungs and the sight from his eyes. The arrow had pierced him through. But how could it be an arrow? No bow had flung it. “Magic,” he gasped, fighting for control of the pain that seared within him. “There is no arrow. Magic is only magic, nothing more.”

Tantas gaped again. The fallen dwarf was getting to his feet. He stood looking down at the glistening shaft standing in his breast. Pain shone in his eyes, but at the same time something else kindled there. The dwarf’s jaws tightened, and his eyes narrowed. “I only imagine this,” he whispered. “It is not real.” Gritting his teeth, he struck the shaft with the edge of his shield. The arrow broke and disappeared as the sword had.

“I don’t believe this!” Tantas shrilled. Frantically, he began another spell, this one far more elaborate.

“That’s enough,” Damon growled. More quickly than a human could have imagined possible, he swung his hammer and threw it. Tantas tried to duck aside, and the other mages tried to weave spells, but it was too late. The big hammer hummed through the air, struck the dark wizard directly in the face, and carried him backward to sprawl flat on the hard ground.

Stunned and shocked, the other two wizards hurried to their companion, knelt beside him, and pulled back his high collar. Inside, where there had once been a face, now there was only blood oozing from smashed features.

“He’s dead!” Sigamon screeched. “The dwarf killed him!”

Damon stepped past them, retrieved his hammer, and wiped it clean on the fallen wizard’s sleeve. “He accepted my challenge,” he said flatly. “He lost. Now, you two, I’ll give you one hour to pack your things.”

In a rage, Sigamon stood, whirled toward the dwarf, and threw a spell that sizzled from both of his hands like burning ice. Again the dwarf was thrown to the ground, and this time his shield and hammer were torn from his grip.

Dimly, he heard Megistal say, “Sigamon, don’t! This is a phenomenon we must study. Somehow this creature has resisted magic. We must know how!”

“No!” Sigamon panted, holding his spell in place as Damon struggled against it. “No, he’s far too dangerous. Maybe magic won’t kill him, but falling from a cliff will. Stand back!”

Struggling, trying to break free of the searing pain of the spell that held him, Damon felt himself rise and saw the ground move beneath him. Slowly he began to float toward the edge of Sheercliff. He gritted his teeth, waved and kicked, and abruptly fell to the ground. But before he could get to his feet the spell had him again, lifting him. Turning and tumbling in the air, he had a glimpse of the bulging eyes, the straining features of the white wizard. Sigamon was putting every ounce of his strength into his magic.

Megistal backed away, shaking his head. Sigamon summoned all his energy and concentrated on his spell. The dwarf’s resistance was incredible. He should have been instantly thrown out past the ledge, but instead it was all Sigamon could do to float him slowly toward the drop. As he concentrated with all his will, someone tugged at his robe.

“Excuse me,” a high-pitched voice said. “Your pot has fallen over in the fire.”

The spell snapped, the dwarf clattered to the ground, and Sigamon sagged, panting and sweating. Beside him stood a small person, no taller than his hip, gazing up with excited, happy eyes.

“A . . . kender,” Sigamon panted. “A . . . blasted . . . kender!”

“Hello,” she said. “I’m Shill.”

Megistal stared at the kender, then glanced up and shouted, “Sigamon! Watch out!”

Before the white-robe could react, something very solid and strong crashed into him, doubling him over and carrying him backward. Arms as thick as oak branches and as hard as quarried stone circled him, squeezing the breath from his lungs. The tall mage was carried backward a dozen feet, then lifted high, spun around, and thrown to the ground. Before he could move, the dwarf was on him, pinning his arms behind his back. Powerful fingers locked themselves in the sparse hair behind his bald pate, lifted his head, and slammed it down.

Sigamon passed out.

Amazed and fascinated, Megistal watched the dwarf stand away from the wizard and rub his hands together as though to wash away filth.

Damon turned to the third wizard. “I suppose I’ll have to deal with you, too,” he said.

“I can hardly let this go unresolved.” Megistal shrugged, almost apologetically. “But tell me, why aren’t you dead? You should be dead. Those spells were very powerful.”

“Spells,” Damon sneered. “Magic. I don’t like magic.”

“Well, whether you like it or not, I don’t understand how you managed to resist it as you did. Didn’t their spells hurt you?”

“They hurt,” Damon growled. “Like nothing I’ve ever felt, they hurt. But they weren’t actually . . . real. They were just magic.”

“Magic is real!” Megistal protested. “Don’t you know that? Magic can . . . Here, I’ll show you.” He muttered a few syllables and raised his hand. Nearby, the brush lean-to shivered, grew, and became a tall stone tower. Megistal pointed at it. “What do you see there?”

“Magic,” Damon admitted. “I see a tower . . . and a brush shelter. The tower is just an illusion.”

“You’re right.” The mage nodded. He snapped his fingers, and the tower disappeared. “That was only illusion, but this isn’t.” Again he spoke words, and the brush shelter raised itself from the ground, soared like a bird high overhead, and settled to earth again several hundred yards away. “That was no illusion,” Megistal said. “That was true movement.”

“I guess it was,” Damon admitted. “It was still magic, though. And magic is something we don’t want in Kal-Thax. Are you going to leave?”

“Fascinating,” the wizard muttered. “A mixture of acceptance and disbelief, of realization and revulsion, and under it all, just plain stubbornness. Are you one of a kind, or are all dwarves like you?”

“I don’t know,” Damon growled. “Now, get out of Kal-Thax!”

“Well, I’ve enjoyed talking to you,” the wizard said. “You have taught me something that I didn’t know. And I really don’t blame you about Tantas and Sigamon. Tantas is good riddance, as far as I’m concerned, and Sigamon deserved what he got. I’m really sorry that I must . . . Mordes motem! Chapak! ”

Caught completely off-guard, Damon felt himself lifted and flung toward the cliff.

“Surprise defeats stubbornness,” Megistal said to himself questioningly. Then something hummed behind him, and a fist-sized stone bounced off the back of his head. The wizard sighed, his knees buckled, and he sagged to the ground. At the very lip of the cliff, Damon dropped, tumbled, and went over, clawing and struggling. For a moment he clung to the edge; then a small, strong hand grasped his wrist, and an irate voice snapped, “Well, don’t just dangle! Climb!”