The Last Garrison (Dungeons & Dragons Novel) (28 page)

It was Luzhon who noticed first, and she went immediately to Sten. In the great crush of villagers, the great noise of the revelry, the celebration that had filled Haven’s hearths and hearts, Luzhon noticed his absence. Everyone around them, encircling the heroes of Haven, holding them, and admiring them, handing to them drinks and food. Cuts, still fresh, still sore, were tended to by the admirers, the grateful—hunters and healers who had never dressed wounds of the magnitude seen before them, but who did their best and did so with gratitude, without word. As the villagers sang together and wept together, as they lifted Padlur and Kohel from one bruised shoulder to the next, offered them praise for the great success of the warriors they had brought to protect them,
as goodwill was offered to the two least deserving of it, the young man responsible for first discovering the great leader of the heroes was missing. Nergei, the orphan boy, was not among the revelers.

“My son has brought us these champions,” said Londih to a gathered crowd of councilmen. “He will be a worthy successor to me, yes?” There was a cry of agreement and Londih drank it in. “And Padlur a fine second perhaps.” The boys were unaware they were the topic of conversation, instead engaged in telling stories to a crowd of the children of the landed villagers—paying special attention to the girls. They capered and exaggerated, acted as each other’s eyewitness or accomplice. Puffed up each story with new, more unlikely detail. Padlur striking a kenku so hard, the blade sliced through and connected with the creature beside him. Kohel in the city, outwitting a shopkeeper who had attempted to take advantage of good village folk with unreasonable prices. The two, side-by-side, helping guide the warriors back to Haven, and discovering the goliath in the woods near the village, taming the savage with their strength and affinity with the natural world. Luzhon, mostly unnoticed, moved through the crowds, searching for Nergei.

“It must have been wonderful, child,” said a woman who grabbed Luzhon, spun her around,
and planted a kiss on her forehead, “to have been with the boys when they discovered these wonderful heroes. You must be very proud to have been a witness to it.”

Luzhon managed only the slightest smile, but could not find within her the strength to speak, to correct her. The myth had already taken hold. Within hours of victory, of safety, the lie had become the truth.

Sten heard similar stories, but pained and exhausted by combat, he was unable to summon the energy to correct them, as well. He and Spundwand sat, backs against a ruined stone wall in the center of town. Spundwand was content to empty a stein, to hold it up, and to wait for a passing villager to fill it with wine or ale.

“This wall is not like the masonry in this village,” said Sten, when finally his tongue returned.

“This is what I told you about at the ruin,” said Spundwand. “There is history in this place.”

“It is as you suspected?”

“I recognize these stones, Sten. I know this work.”

“And they don’t know?”

“It seems not, Captain. I believe they are completely in the dark.”

“In the dark about what?” asked Luzhon. As she searched for Nergei, she had found the two friends by the way.

“It is nothing, child,” said Spundwand. “A past so long forgotten, your great grandmother’s mother has forgotten it.”

“Dwarves live a long time, young lady,” said Sten. “And they love nothing more than to remind us humans of it. To remind us of how brief our lanterns gutter before they snuff.”

“She need not know, Sten.”

“Of course not, Spundwand. She
need
not know. But perhaps she might like to know.”

“I would,” said Luzhon. “I would tell the others. It would do the people of this village good to retrieve a memory or two.”

“Later, child,” said Spundwand. “I promise to tell you all I know and all I suspect. But later. Until then,” Spundwand raised his stein again, shivering with a moment of pain from the bruises on his arms and chest. “Until then, a little more ale will ease the soreness Moradin’s mercy has not yet drawn from my body.”

“I am looking for Nergei,” said Luzhon. “I have not seen him since before the battle. Have either of you?”

“No,” said Sten. “He has not been here. I would like to see him, as well.” Sten rubbed his head and smiled. “The boy has done me a great service. As have you, young lady. I am an old man, and doubt I have another battle in me. But this will send me to the final journey with no small amount of pride.”

“It is a nice village,” said Spundwand. “A nice little village.”

“The air is cleaner than it is in the city,” said Sten, his hands at his sides, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled deeply.

“The roads more manageable. Less populated with cutthroats.”

“All true,” said Luzhon. “If only the people were able to recognize a real hero instead of a false one. Please. Help me find Nergei?”

Sten was the first to stand. Spundwand seemed unlikely to follow, seemed rooted to his place beneath the wall. But he realized his arm was still aloft, and his cup was still empty. He would need to seek out further drink. So, stubbornly, slowly, he stood with his friend and the girl, and he allowed them to lead him wherever it was they were going.

“Perhaps he has gone to see his master in the observatory,” said Sten.

“Yes,” said Luzhon. “That is probably right. I have not checked there yet.”

So, traveling the long way around the small crowds to avoid entanglements, stopping only once at a cask rolled near the town square for the celebration so that Spundwand could fill his cup—which he was barely able to do, the great wooden thing had been drained so thoroughly—the three walked to the road that led up to the observatory.

And there, standing frozen in the middle of the road, was Nergei.

“There you are,” said Luzhon. “I have been searching.”

Nergei did not speak. He simply stared ahead. Luzhon, Sten, and Spundwand stepped to his side and followed his gaze. He was looking at the observatory.

“Have you gone to see your master, boy?” asked Sten.

Nergei forced himself, after a long pause, to speak. Fear trembled his voice. “No,” he said. “I have not.”

“What’s wrong, Nergei?” asked Luzhon.

“Can you not see it? My master’s home?”

“See what, child,” said Spundwand. “It’s dark and my eyes are old. And Sten’s older still.”

Luzhon strained to look, but at first saw nothing, as well. But then, yes. Perhaps. The observatory was as it always was, but not. Something about it … rippled. Something about the grass around it, the trees, the fence—something was not right. But she did not know how to think about it, let alone describe it. “Nergei, what’s happening to it?” she asked.

“It’s there and not there at the same time,” he said. “It is—I don’t know how to say this, really It’s shifting at its edges.”

“Magic,” said Spundwand. “The old man’s magic?”

“I would guess,” said Nergei. “He has not been well. Not been himself.”

“And now neither is your home, boy,” said Spundwand. “I begin to see it, too.”

Ribbons of light flashed around the outside of the observatory. The windows seemed to crack and heal in an instant. The building appeared to
breathe
. Sten stepped forward a few paces and turned to urge the others on. “Come along. Spundwand and I will go with you.” Luzhon and Nergei let the old man lead, but found the courage to follow. As they approached the observatory, they felt a prickling on their skin, a surge of heat in their lungs. They saw themselves moving forward, but for paces would not feel the ground beneath their feet. All was still; all was silent. From a single step to the next, the world went from late afternoon to late dusk.

“It is dark before its time,” said Spundwand.

Nergei worried for his master. When they were close enough, he saw that the ribbons of energy that slithered like eels across the walls of the house began at the top, on the deck above the roof, where his master stood to look at and commune with the stars. “He’s up there,” Nergei said, pointing above. “He ponders the stars from the roof deck.”

“Well,” said Sten, “let’s go up and speak to him.”

They approached and entered the observatory tentatively, Nergei first and Sten close behind. Spundwand followed and turned to discourage Luzhon from joining
them, but saw the resolve in her. He saw, also, that she stared with rapt attention at Nergei. Spundwand had seen that kind of attention in a person’s eyes before and, for a moment, the foreboding feeling in his belly melted away a little, and he allowed himself to consider the great wonders of devotion. If it had been a different moment, he would’ve offered them a blessing. But entering the building, all thoughts but the present were shaken free of his mind. Within the foyer of the observatory, energy rippled along the walls. The
breathing
—the expansion and contraction of the floor, the ceiling, the walls, the windows—continued, but to a greater degree. The curtains fluttered, but there was no wind—they were, in fact, closed. Their skin burned a little deeper, their hair like an ember in its death throes, uncomfortable but not bubbling their skin.

“We go up the stairs here,” said Nergei, “and then from the end of the hallway above there is a ladder.” How, wondered Nergei, had the old man climbed the ladder. In truth, it had been months since he seemed to have the energy to do so. Except for the council meeting when the kenku first attacked, the old man hadn’t moved from his chair in weeks. He had barely lifted his arm.

As they climbed the stairs, they noticed a rippling in the very air in front of them. It appeared to flash
and tear and, briefly, pinch open. Nergei, closest to the cleave, observed a flickering of fire, and thought he saw a shape like that of a wing enrobed in flame. As quickly as it opened, the tear closed.

“What was that?” asked Luzhon.

“Some magic can let us see the other worlds,” said Nergei. “The ones right on top of our own. Some magic can let us touch the places where the fey live, some where the dead go.”

“Magic allows us entry,” she asked, “or keeps us separated from them?”

“We know only what we see, child,” said Spundwand. “And we see only what the gods allow.”

“It could’ve been nothing more than a trick of the light,” said Sten. “Press on.”

At the top of the stairs, Spundwand fell back and let Luzhon move up closer to Nergei. “I’ve never been in here before,” she said. “Is it
always
like this?”

“Something is wrong,” said Nergei. “The master can and has for short periods of time played with the fabric of the world in this way, but never to this extent.” The hallway appeared to get longer and then shorter as they walked to the ladder. The threads at the edges of the rug unwove and danced in another unperceivable wind. Near the ladder was the door to the master’s quarters. It was on the floor, broken into a dozen pieces and still tearing itself apart. Nergei
allowed himself a brief glance within, and saw nothing but black, nothing but void. Sten looked over, as well, and exclaimed. “What manner—” he said, but knowing no answer would be forthcoming, he let the two words stand there in the silence.

Nergei moved more quickly, his fear giving way to his worry for the old man. He led the others up the ladder, through the open trapdoor, and pulled himself up. And there in the center of the roof deck stood his master.

Or someone who appeared to be his master. The figure was alive with energy, pulsated blue and black. He was large—much larger than usual. He was wild with energy, too. Standing still but shaking and moving his arms in a way the old man could no longer do. But there were his master’s robes. There were his master’s hands and his master’s great white beard. The figure swirled his hand in the sky, and light formed a circle that spun and funneled. As the group approached, they saw that the sky seen through the circle was concave, magnified. Closer. The figure seemed to reach into the circle, to pull the stars within it closer. He looked, muttered angrily, pulled them closer, looked deeper, muttered more angrily, and then would swipe his hand across the stars, pushing them to one side or the other, and begin searching a new patch of stars.

“Where,” he shouted. “Where are you hiding? I will find you!”

He searched and searched, unaware or unconcerned with Nergei, Luzhon, Sten, and Spundwand. He searched and pulled and muttered and swiped. “Where?” he shouted. “Where?”

Nergei touched the old man’s robe. He seemed twice his normal size. “Master?”

The old man was startled, and the circle of light evaporated. The observatory ceased to breathe. “Master,” said Nergei.

The old man shuddered and his eyes, gone entirely pale, it seemed, cleared to their familiar icy blue. He lowered them to the boy. “Master, the kenku have fled or they have been killed. Haven is safe. It is over.”

The old man’s eyes softened. With a voice of greater warmth than Nergei had ever heard from him, the old man spoke to him. Directly to him. Spoke to him instead of at him. For the first time in the boy’s life. The old man’s size returned to normal, with the deliberate evenness of an icicle melting.

“No, child,” the old man said. “It is not over at all. Not at all.” The old man smiled gently, laid his right hand on the boy’s shoulder, opened his robe, and the fabric of the world ripped in pieces.