Wandering Lark (23 page)

Gareth frowned. The Dvergar had been prattling away most of the morning. More than once, Gareth had been tempted to thump him and Fenelon. It was bad enough listening to Hobbler elaborate on some of their adventures without Fenelon encouraging the embellishments.

“I don’t suppose he told you about the time we found the lake where the kelpie tried to lure us into the water, did he?” Hobbler said.

“Where was this?” Fenelon asked cheerfully.

“Oh, I think we were over near Ashdale at the time.” Hobbler glanced over at Gareth. “It was Ashdale where you met that barmaid with the...”

Gareth let his staff down on Hobbler’s toe. The Dvergar gave a yelp and hopped into Fenelon.

“Barmaid?” Fenelon said as he caught Hobbler and kept him upright. “You never told me about the barmaid, Father.”

“Your father was quite a ladies man in those days,” Hobbler said as he limped a bit. “Women were all over him. It’s a wonder your mother was not one of them.”

Fenelon laughed. Gareth stopped and turned so that he was facing both of them.

“Look, we have a task here, and all this banter is not necessary,” he said.

“Father, what harm is there in us passing time with conversation?” Fenelon said.

“It’s a conversation that is only meant to try my patience.” Gareth glared at Hobbler. “You have a job to do, and so far, all you’ve done is lead us through the woods in a circle.”

“A circle?” Hobbler looked at their surroundings. “Oh. I guess I got a little distracted. This way.”

He hurried on. Gareth caught Fenelon’s arm and drew him close. “Stop encouraging him,” he said, hoping his expression would make his thoughts clear.

“He doesn’t need much encouragement,” Fenelon said.

“Neither do you,” Gareth said and released Fenelon who staggered a step or two and grinned like an imp. “You know, Father, maybe you should look that barmaid up again.”

Gareth glowered, and Fenelon sped up his pace, catching up with Hobbler once more. The Dvergar had stopped on a hummock and now peered around a huge ash tree while wearing an expression of uncertainty. Horns, are we lost already? Gareth wondered. He was starting to believe he could have found the way to the pass alone with no loss to his dignity.

Hobbler put up a hand to indicate silence and caution were needed. Frowning, Gareth tested the air with mage senses, a good habit now that his son was free. There was an ancient feel to this forest, but then most of Ross-Mhor felt that way.

Fenelon suddenly crouched as though to make himself less visible, and Gareth stopped, watching the pair of them. Then cautiously, he made his way up behind Fenelon, keeping low.

Over the hummock was a clearing and a stream, and crouched at the water’s edge was something huge and thick with fur. Bear was Gareth’s first thought.

And then it moved. A hideous woman’s face with jutting lower teeth peered over one shoulder. Clearly, she was feeding, for strands of raw meat hung from her mouth. She lapped at the bits with a long rough tongue, and turned her attention back to whatever she had in front of her.

“By the Beard of The All Father,” Hobbler muttered. “This is not good. It’s a jotun hag.”

“Jotun hag?” Fenelon whispered. “One of the giant trow women? I thought those were just stories.”

“We’re practically in the foothills of the Ranges,” Hobbler replied. “The forest in these parts is not travelled as much. Most folk use the longer route of the southern trade roads so they don’t have to pass through here. Makes it all the easier for beasts like that to wander unnoticed.”

“Then we’ll just go up or down stream and cross,” Gareth said. “As long as we do not disturb her, we’re in no danger.”

“Unfortunately, this is the only shallow point for leagues. We need to cross here.”

He saw Fenelon’s eyes crinkle with merriment. Gareth put a finger to Fenelon’s nose.

“Don’t even think about it,” Gareth said.

“Think about what?” Fenelon retorted glancing up at Gareth.

“Whatever you were thinking,” Gareth said. “I forbid it.”

“Father, I’m not five years old, and I’m not afraid of an overgrown hairy woman.”

He paused. Gareth saw Hobbler freeze and wince, and felt the warm breath stinking of carrion as it
whuffled
across the back of his neck. He turned and looked into the ugly visage of the jotun hag. How she had managed to move so silently and come around the other side of the tree, he could not say. She spread wide her nostrils and sniffed, and grinned.

And then with a roar, she lunged.

“Horns!” Fenelon shouted and tried to get some distance to cast a spell. Hobbler wailed and scrambled backwards only to trip over roots. Gareth stood his ground. He had not traveled the ranges and the forests alone and survived all these years for naught. With a shout, he flipped his staff around and slammed it straight into the jotun’s huge fleshy nose.

She howled in pain, drawing back, bumping into the tree. Blood spurted from her nose and ran a river down her chin. She shook herself like a dog and the look that filled her eyes was cold rage. Dropping to all fours, she stalked like a panther and warily circled Gareth. He stayed with her, ignoring Fenelon and Hobbler’s shouts that he should retreat. The jotun hag raked an angry claw at him, and he brought the staff down across her knuckles and heard bones crunch. She squealed and backed away, still watching him. Then throwing back her head, she howled.

The cry was echoed from somewhere close by half a dozen deep grumbling voices. Horns, she was not alone. Gareth now backed over to where Fenelon and Hobbler were waiting atop the hummock.

“Run,” he said and bolted between them.

They followed just in time. He could hear several huge bodies crashing through the trees, heading this way. Gareth splashed across the stream, mindful that the water was up to his ankles and he would have wet boots to contend with, but he wanted to be on the opposite side. He heard Hobbler yelp as the Dvergar fell and splattered water everywhere. Fortunately, Fenelon was at the end of the line, and he seized Hobbler’s tunic at the neck and practically dragged the Dvergar out of the stream.

Once Gareth reached the far bank, he stopped and turned. Three male jotun had just charged up to the water’s edge. They paused, snarling like angry dogs, slapping the ground with their malformed large hands and drumming with their heels. Yet they did not step into the stream, but moved up and down the shore, uttering their cries of rage.

“Why aren’t they following?” Fenelon said as he stopped behind Gareth to watch the show.

“Jotun are afraid of water,” Hobbler said and sank to the ground when his trembling legs refused to take him any farther.

“Seriously?” Fenelon said. “Why?”

“Oh, some old myth or another,” Hobbler said. “They’re heavy and they can’t swim.”

“But the water’s not...”

Gareth raised his hand to silence Fenelon. “They don’t know that,” he said.

The male jotuns were beating fists on their own chests and one another’s shoulders and backs, and a squabble broke out among them when the female’s kill was discovered still lying on the banks. She suddenly rushed into the battle, trying to defend her prey and at once, they were all rolling and tumbling, scratching and clawing and slapping and beating each other.

“They also have very short attention spans,” Gareth added.

“Then maybe we should leave before they remember we’re here and start throwing boulders and tree trunks,” Hobbler suggested.

Gareth nodded. “Lead on,” he said. “And this time, see if you can stick to the trail.”

“We should reach Yewside before dark,” Hobbler said and crawled to his feet, heading away from the stream and back into the trees.

“Good,” Fenelon said. “Plenty of time to tell me why jotun are not like their cousins the fomorians.”

“Because they were among the creatures corrupted by the Dark Mother when the Great Cataclysm occurred,” Hobbler said. “Mind you, they’re not smart like their cousins the mountain jotun who are nearly as great at mining and smith craft as the Stone Folk of old. So when the Dark Mother needed them to fill in her armies, they were easy to sway. Alas, she left them as disturbed as the demons.”

“You speak of it as though you were there,” Fenelon said.

“No, but my uncle Argent Bonebreaker was,” Hobbler said. “He used to tell some fine stories.”

“Died?”

“No, he just went mad and lost all his wits and his memories. They have him locked up in one of the deep caves under the Ranges so he won’t hurt anyone or himself.”

“How did he go mad?”

“Oh, that’s a really long story, but it started when he found this ancient mine that was once the lair of a herd of very large pigs that some said belonged to the Winter Hag...”

Let’s hope it’s not too long,
Gareth thought. Hobbler would just get them lost again. Or lead them back to where the jotuns were still growling over the remains of their breakfast.

Wendon leaned against the wall,
trying hard not to fall asleep. Outside the window, he could see that it was still night, but the light was starting to shift a little, gaining a slight grey hue. Horns, if he did not get to sleep soon...

It occurred to him that Fenelon had made no arrangements for Wendon to do so. He’d been in a hurry to get out of the tower, and he had wanted to trade the spell and the essence as carefully as possible to keep from alerting the guards. Wendon had to admit that he had been amazed to see the spell work at all. This tower was supposed to prevent such things.

With Fenelon, one never trusted the impossible to remain just that.

He damned well better be ready to speak for my advancement to master mageborn,
Wendon thought. Fenelon would owe Wendon much for this.

He yawned, and with that yawn, he felt the illusion ripple.

No...don’t do that...stay awake...think of Thera...

Sweet, pretty Thera with those lithe little hands that raised a lot more than goose bumps on his flesh. When all this was over with, he would certainly want to see her again.

Yes, think of Thera.

She was a lovely lass and she had been kind to him. Strange because Wendon never thought of himself as the sort of young man who attracted women easily. Indeed, the only ones he’d managed to attract before had required a few silver sgillinns in exchange for their attentions. He frowned.

No more of that,
then, he told himself. If Thera truly meant the things she had said to him when she begged him to help and take Fenelon’s place, Wendon would count himself a lucky man. Why, he might even ask her to be his bride.

Of course, she would probably refuse. Why would one devoted to Diancecht want to attach herself to a mere mageborn apprentice?

I won’t be an apprentice for long,
Wendon reminded himself.
Once Fenelon gets back.

And then it dawned on Wendon. Why would Fenelon want to come back to being a prisoner in the tower? What was to prevent him from freeing Etienne and Shona and just leaving? And then here Wendon would be, stuck in the tower, a prisoner all because of his own gullibility.

Anger surged. He was being duped! He just knew it. Fenelon would never willingly return. Thera had just been the bait. He should have known better than to trust a healer...or Etienne for that matter. They were all friends of Alaric the demon-bound!

Snarling under his breath, Wendon dropped the illusion.

And quickly learned the folly of doing so. Fenelon’s clothes were made for a taller thinner man, and as Wendon shorted and expanded to his own tree-stump figure, the fabrics squeezed him like a giant hand.  He gasped and groaned as he fought to take air deep in into his lungs so he could shout for help.

Just when he thought he was going to pass out, he heard the fabric tearing and the seams giving way.

Better. Yes, much better. He took several deep breaths then shouted, “Guards! Help me!”

For a moment, it was as though no one heard. Then slowly, the door opened and a head popped into view.