Two Renegade Realms (Realm Walkers Book 2) (23 page)

“It might be. Why don’t you go up and get it?”

“Wouldn’t you like to read for a bit longer while I take a nap? Remember, I’ve been sick. If it isn’t urgent, I could get it after a restorative snooze.”

“Be a good fellow, Bridger, and get it now.”

He groaned and shifted to his feet. “All right.”

A couple of flaps of his wings, and he plucked the orb from the stem that held it out from the ceiling. He settled down next to Dukmee and offered the prize to his companion.

Dukmee’s skin tingled as he reached for the globe. He’d never seen anything like it. The smooth glass slipped from Bridger’s claws into his grasp. A shock sprang from his hand, traveled up his arm, and threw him to the floor.

He tried to speak but his mouth wouldn’t move. On his back, with his arm outstretched, his head turned to one side so he looked over his shoulder and down his arm, he was incapable of the slightest movement. The thought rushed through his mind that he wasn’t breathing, but with concentration, he discerned that he did breathe with a shallow, steady rhythm.

He could see.

He could hear.

Bridger shuffled back and forth, muttering, “You told me to get the globe. I got the globe. It didn’t do a thing to me. You told me to get it. I got it. You wanted it. Now you have it.”

Dukmee felt Bridger poke his side. “Wake up. You have to read the walls. You’re supposed to figure out how to get us out of here. Wake up and do your job.”

He poked Dukmee again. “This isn’t my fault. You said get the globe. I got the globe.”

Dukmee concentrated on the hand holding the glass orb. If he could just get his fingers to relax and release the globe,
he’d probably be able to move. If he could just communicate to Bridger to take the globe from his hand. He focused on forming a message to send to Bridger’s mind, but words didn’t leave his head and penetrate the dragon’s skull.

His attention returned to the globe. It held the key.

In a flash, he saw the purpose of the sphere-shaped instrument. Like a library, it held all the information from the mountain and all the writings and pictures on the walls. Everything.

As he peered into its center, the words spun as if suspended in a liquid. He could stop them at will and read. He could skip forward as if flipping pages in a book. He could return to a word or phrase he’d seen previously. He wanted to shout with triumph, but he couldn’t move.

He swallowed.

He blinked.

He wasn’t going to die.

Bridger’s poke redirected his thoughts. Would the dragon be able to get them out?

“Wake up.” Bridger’s head came into view between Dukmee’s head and his hand. It was upside down. He frowned. “Hello?”

I HEARD YOU COMING

S
tanding under the shingled porch roof, Cantor tacked the last drawing on the outside wall of the house. Bixby and Neekoh had been gone on their search for Trout over an hour before, and he’d drawn for much of that time, stopping only when his hand cramped so badly he could no longer hold the writing instrument. He’d laid his work aside almost reluctantly and turned his attention to sifting through the piles of drawings he’d created and pinning the most relevant to the wall.

The burro brayed in her paddock. She probably wanted her dinner. In the two days they’d been with Trout, Neekoh had taken over that chore. He got along well with all the animals, but the burro and the goats particularly liked him. The horses came when he whistled.

Cantor had always had an affinity with the birds and small creatures of the mountains, but he’d never had at his feet a
rabbit, a fox, a turtle, and a raccoon, all at the same time. To see Neekoh sitting on the stump by the garden, surrounded by these creatures, filled Cantor with amazement.

They showed no fear of the human and no tension between animals prone to hunt or run from one another.

Cantor frowned. In his mind’s eye, he could also see the young man sitting year after year in the dim caves of the mountain. What had been the purpose? Guardian of Chomountain? That was laughable. Generations of his family had gone through a ritual of sacrifice that kept no one and nothing safe. The wards had been sufficient.

No longer absorbed by the writing tools, Cantor took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and surveyed his surroundings. The late afternoon sun sifted through the trees west of Trout’s little homestead. He rotated his head, stretching his neck muscles.

Jumping off the porch, he landed squarely on his feet in the wide area of grass and dirt just in front of the cabin. With the ease of long practice, he began the forms that limbered his body and kept him ready for combat, a habit he’d neglected lately. With the invasion coming, he should be all the more diligent in taking care of his fighting skills. He’d broach the subject with Bixby and Dukmee when they returned.

Another frown creased his face. Where were his friends, and what delayed their return?

Before he’d really gotten started, he almost abandoned his exercise. That was his problem. He was too easily distracted. He lacked commitment, lacked discipline. Stubbornly, he stretched his arms above his head and pivoted to the fifth stance of the first form.

Forty-five minutes later, the sun had eased toward the
western mountain peaks. Cantor blew out his last large breath and strolled toward the animals. He’d feed them before the others returned. That would be one less thing keeping them from the major issue they must face this evening.

The gentle beasts greeted him, obviously counting his arrival as the harbinger of grain and fresh water. Cantor wandered among them, seeing to their simple needs and adding a gentle hand of appreciation. Shooing the chickens into the henhouse and shutting the door was the last chore of the evening.

As he headed for the cabin, the burro made her happy, grunty noises. He turned to see her small hoofs beat a happy tappity-tap on the packed dirt as she danced back and forth, her head swinging over the short fence. Cantor grinned and looked to the trees. Bixby, Neekoh, and Trout strode out from the woods and crossed the open space at a fair pace.

Cantor walked to intercept them. Old Trout charged past without a word. Neekoh shrugged as he went by, with his hands splayed palms up in a gesture that claimed no understanding of the old man’s mood. Bixby raised her eyebrows as she walked past with a little less sass in her lively steps.

Cantor fell in beside her, his long stride kept in check so he could take her hand and slow her down. He leaned over to whisper, “Did you tell him?”

She looked up with mischief in her eyes. “No, I thought you better suited for such a revelation. Or Dukmee.”

Cantor sighed. “Dukmee, definitely Dukmee.”

“We could argue that Neekoh was officially appointed his guardian, and therefore, it’s his responsibility.”

As they came up to the cabin, Trout stood on the porch, looking at the drawings one by one. Neekoh sat on the edge,
the cat already ensconced in his lap and receiving a thorough ear rub.

Cantor and Bixby stayed on the grass and watched as the old man sidestepped along the wall, slowly. Very slowly. Occasionally he rubbed his hand through his hair or squeezed the back of his neck. He set his fists on his hips, crossed his arms over his chest, fiddled with his beard, hummed a monotone ditty. He didn’t speak.

Neekoh got up, the cat in his arms. “I’ll go see to the animals.”

Cantor observed the lad’s uneasy expression. “I’ve already done that.”

“Then I’ll just keep them company a bit. Maybe sing something mellow as a lullaby. They like that.”

Cantor cocked an eyebrow but didn’t stop him.

Bixby sighed and tucked her tiny hand in Cantor’s massive one. “I wish Dukmee and Bridger would return.”

Cantor silently agreed.

Bixby’s thoughts intruded.
“Where did they say they were going?”

“The ruins.”

“What had Dukmee found in the books? What was he checking on?”

“You know he didn’t say.”

“Typical.”

Cantor grunted.

“What do you think he’s thinking?”

“Probably pondering some great archaeological discovery and not thinking of us at all.”

He heard Bixby’s thoughts whirr and sizzle for a second.

“Not Dukmee.”
She thrust the words at him.
“Old Trout. Chomountain.”

Cantor bent his arm and stuck his thumb in his belt. Bixby still held that hand, so she floated up with the movement and hung beside his leg.

He looked down. “Oh, sorry.”

He lowered her so she stood on her feet. She glared at him, but then her eyes lost the flare of indignation and a sparkle of humor replaced it. They looked at each other. Then succumbed to a fit of laughter.

Bixby jerked her hand out of Cantor’s grasp and covered her mouth, using the other hand as well as if that would help muffle her giggles.

Cantor pressed his lips together and looked away from her, up toward the treetops and mountain. He studied anything his eyes fell upon, trying to tamp down the inappropriate mirth.

When he thought he could control his emotions, he lowered his gaze to the porch. Old Trout stood on the edge, facing them, arms crossed over his chest and a glower showing through his straggly gray beard and bushy eyebrows.

Cantor cleared his throat, partially to alert Bixby to the changed circumstances. “You don’t look like Old Trout anymore . . . sir.”

“This,” said Chomountain in a commanding voice totally unlike Trout’s pleasant rumble, “is what I heard coming.”

“Sir?”

“Not clear, of course, but a mumble in my memory, a whisper in my conscience.” He rubbed his hands together with vigor. “Primen has called me back. Don’t tell me how many years. Knowing won’t change a thing.”

He turned abruptly, strode into the cabin, and came out
again, clutching the bit of polished silver he used for a mirror. He placed himself in the strongest of the fading light and inspected his face.

He shook his head. “That doesn’t help a bit. I look just as I always have, not a day over two hundred.”

“But . . .” Bixby said.

He flapped a hand at her. “Yes, yes, I follow your line of thought. But I took up my position as right hand of Primen somewhere around my two hundredth birthday, and I haven’t aged since.” He winked at Bixby. “One of the advantages.”

He paused and tilted his head as if listening. All Cantor heard was the soft soughing of the wind through the trees, the mellow calls of a few night birds, insects and tree frogs with their rhythmic clatter, and Neekoh’s soothing tenor working wonders with a pleasing melody.

Bixby shifted to stand closer to Cantor’s side. “What do you hear, sir?” she asked.

“I hear the symphony Primen began at the dawn of time. And Neekoh missing the high B every time he comes to it. I must tell that boy to lift his eyebrows when he approaches the top of his range.”

Chomountain turned his back on them and returned to his perusal of the pictures. “Not all of these are of me.” He pointed to a sketch of a tall, thin man in flowing robes. “Arbinaster. A scholar from Alius. And with him is Borneodeme, an astronomer from Derson.” He moved to a set of buildings. “These are structures housing the parliament of Tatumknol. Why did the artists include these?”

He whipped around, focusing on Bixby and Cantor again. “Who was responsible for shutting down my memory and isolating me? And to what purpose?”

Cantor didn’t think he expected an answer. His own theories revolved around the Realm Walkers Guild.

Chomountain nodded at him. “I know. With your animosity toward the guild council, it would be convenient for their involvement to have begun so long ago. But you’ve come to the conclusion yourself this isn’t feasible. A more powerful force has to have masterminded this.”

Bixby bounced, something she often did when a thought had taken hold in her fervent mind. “We have to look behind the evil we can see to something bigger. Something outside of normal. Life like Primen and the mountain servants and the Primen warriors. They transcend time. Are there entities of evil like Primen’s force for good?”

“There are entities who once served Primen but fell away in pursuit of their own interests. We rarely deal directly with them, but with those mortals who cater to their demands in hopes of gaining power.”

Cantor narrowed his eyes. “There are plenty of those in the Realm Walkers Guild.”

“You’re right, son, and we’ll deal with them. Presently, our focus must be on the Lymen invasion.”

Cantor’s mind skipped to the dragon and the scholar. Where were they? Dukmee usually handled any crisis that came up, but that silly dragon fell into trouble like a mouse fell into a pail of milk. Suppose Bridger had dragged Dukmee into some serious difficulty?

He reached with his mind for contact with the dragon. Nothing. Of course, Bridger might be in a sound sleep. Since he’d been fighting this cold and taking Dukmee’s and Bixby’s elixirs, he’d been less responsive than usual.

Cantor couldn’t shake his concern. “I’m worried about Dukmee and Bridger.”

Chomountain nodded, then closed his eyes, tilted his head, and seemed to listen. In a moment, he opened his eyes. “There’s no disturbance in the air. I would think your friends have taken shelter at the ruins. We’ll look for them in the morning.”