Wandering Lark (55 page)

“I am sorry,” she said softly.

“I killed her...”

“No,” the white woman said. “She made her sacrifice. She has shifted and saved a piece of the Balance by doing so...”

“What are you?” Talena snapped. She rushed at the woman in white, swinging fists, but before she could arrive, the eldritch creature vanished like smoke.

Talena sank to the floor. No, no, no! It could not be true! Desura could not be dead...

And yet, even as she thought that, Talena knew that it had to be true.

She crawled back onto the pallet and cried herself to sleep, grieving for the cousin she had loved and hated, because that cousin had sacrificed her live doing what Talena had sworn to do.

Alaric awoke feeling stiff.
Horns, he felt like he had actually been crawling around on the walls like he had in his dream. He rolled over on his back with a moan and started to throw back his blankets...

Where are my clothes?

He sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. His clothes were laid across the foot of the enormous bed and as he stared at them, he had no clue as to how they had gotten there. He certainly didn’t remember removing them.

“Vagner?” he called.

The demon was slumped in the corner, and at his name, he awoke with a snort and glanced back and forth. Alaric rubbed his own head and waited for the demon to realize there was no danger present.

“I thought demons didn’t sleep,” Alaric said.

“No, never, not as a rule,” Vagner said then looked around again. “I was asleep, wasn’t I?”

“Yes, you were,” Alaric said.

“Sorry,” Vagner said. “I don’t think anyone bothered us, though.”

Alaric rubbed his chest. His breastbone felt bigger than he remembered.

“Just what did I do last night?” he asked.

“Besides wear yourself out trying to find Talena?”

Alaric frowned. “After,” he said.

Vagner shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. I remember nothing past you lying down to sleep.”

“So you have no idea how my clothes got off me and down there?”

“Am I supposed to?” the demon asked, looking uncertain.

“Well, it would help me if you did,” Alaric said. He rubbed his breastbone again. It felt thicker at the point between his breasts. Longer too. He looked down, trying to see if he had injured himself in some fashion. Didn’t he put something there in his dream?

Like a dagger.

He would have said something aloud, but there was a general bustling at his door. Someone knocked loudly. Alaric snatched up his clothes, pulled the blankets to his chin and said, “Yes?”

The doors fell open, and in marched King Culann.

“Ah, good, you’re up,” the king said. “I hope you slept well...”

Alaric nodded. “Thank you,” he said as he peered back towards the door. He saw no sign of an entourage following the king. That was unusual, a king unaccompanied by at least a man-at-arms. Then again, in this land, many things were clearly unusual. “Is there...something I can do for your majesty?”

“Well, you can get dressed and come to breakfast, and then you can accompany me on my morning ride.”

“Your morning ride?” Alaric repeated. “Well, of course, but I do not have a horse, as I am sure you have been told...” He glanced at Vagner. “Not at any more at any rate.”

“I have horses aplenty,” King Culann said. “I can mount you on something as genteel as butter or something as wild as lightning. The choice is yours. I’ll meet you down in the great hall. This early, my queen and her company will still be abed. She is not much of a morning person.” He winked conspiratorially.

Alaric wanted to say “Neither am I,” but decided it might not be taken in the right spirit.

“Very well. I shall get dressed and be down quickly.”

“Good lad,” King Culann said and started for the door.

Lad?
Alaric mused. And then remembered how old the king claimed to be and kept his thoughts to himself.

King Culann hurried out of the chamber. Alaric rose from his bed, still rubbing his chest, and pulled on his clothes.

“No lightning,” he said and he and Vagner headed for the door. “But nothing so gentle as butter.”

“I never thought butter was all that gentle,” the demon said as he followed.

Alaric laughed. At least, in spite of last night’s weird dreams, his sense of humor was still intact.

Fenelon would be pleased to know that.

They crossed the ford and reached
the village of Warrenvale half a day earlier than they expected. Partly because Fenelon, once he got his wind back insisted on pushing the pace. Gareth started to think his son was doing this just to annoy him. But he kept that to himself. Fenelon was always a strong walker once he got going. For all his city ways, he was a natural out in the wild. Of that, Gareth could be certain.

Warrenvale was aptly named, for the township was laid out in an irregular warren of streets, many running in a circle around other roads leading to a central point like a rabbit’s grazing area. It made for haphazard construction as well. There were places where the houses were so close together, no man could ride mounted, but had to trek single file on foot, and woe be if he met a man going to other way.

Hobbler found them an inn whose painted sign revealed a leaning mountain and the name Wall Brace, so called because it sat against a cliff that loomed over it at an angle.

“Are we sure that’s not going to fall on us in the night?” Fenelon asked.

Gareth looked at the overhang and wondered if Fenelon was right.

“It’s perfectly safe,” Hobbler said.

“So long as you don’t snore?” Fenelon teased the Dvergar.

Hobbler rolled his eyes towards Gareth. “Does he know any jests that have nothing to do with me or my height?”

“Ignore him,” Gareth said. “As long as there is a nice bed and a way to the pass, I don’t care.”

“Well, the way to the pass is through here,” Hobbler said. “Or at least to the Blackbone Caverns. Wall Brace’s cellar is the entrance.”

“Why?” Fenelon asked.

“It’s the Dvergar way of doing things,” Hobbler said. “You start with a hole in the ground that you mine, and as time passes, you build housing and accommodations on top of it. The inn becomes a protective door to the hole in the ground.”

“But not every inn and tavern we’ve encountered in these mountains has been built that way.”

Hobbler shook his head. “That’s because not every tavern and inn starts as a hole in the wall. Though some of them become that any way.”

Fenelon chuckled.

“Well, let’s get inside and find out what the toll is,” Gareth said.

“The toll?” Fenelon said.

“Oh, aye, there’s always a toll,” Gareth said. “You don’t just go walking into a hole in the ground without the proper toll...”

“There is no other way into this Blackbone Cavern, then?” Fenelon asked.

Gareth shrugged. “Possibly, but do you really want to waste more time wandering around in the mountains trying to find one? Sometimes, even the Dvergar don’t know where they all are.”

“No, but we come close to knowing that,” Hobbler said. “But no, there is no other way. The Blackbone Caverns is full of coal, and in turn, it was once harvested of diamonds.”

“Coal?” Fenelon said.

“It’s an oily black rock that actually burns if you set it on fire,” Gareth said. “Makes some pretty nasty smoke. The Dvergar sometimes use it for fuel in their fireplaces.”

“Every Dvergar worth his salt knows that where you find coal, you find diamonds,” Hobbler said.

“You’ll see for yourself once we get inside,” Gareth said.

“I can hardly wait,” Fenelon said in a voice that meant otherwise.

Hobbler headed into the Wall Brace, holding the door for Gareth and Fenelon. They had to duck under a low lintel that was not designed even for men of normal height, and inside, the ceiling was not much better. Gareth was craning his neck at an angle as he followed Hobbler towards the bar.

The master of this house was an ancient white-haired Dvergar with one eye and no teeth. Battle scars marked every inch of his heavily muscled arms. Behind him on the wall were a shield and an axe, and on the shield was the ancient symbol that Gareth recognized as the Haxon rune for thorn. Thurisaz...Thunor’s rune. The Dvergar was clearly a follower of the Hammer God of the ancient Haxons. He cleaned his cups by spitting into them and then wiping them with the hem of his apron. Gareth grinned when he saw Fenelon blanch.

“Don’t worry,” Gareth whispered. “The taste of the ale alone would kill any nastiness the landlord leaves behind.”

Fenelon sighed.

“Hoi, Great Grandfather,” Hobbler said as he approached the bar. “What’s the going rate to enter the Blackbones these days?”

The landlord sniffed and wiped his nose with his apron, revealing that several of his fingers were missing on one hand. “Depends,” he said. “Who’s for the caverns?”

“My friends and I, of course,” Hobbler said and gestured to Gareth and Fenelon. “They heard there were diamonds in there, and wanted a look.”

The landlord chuckled and shook his head. “Long legs and their greed,” he sputtered. “The going rate is a gold sgillinn for each head over the height of the door they stand next to.”

“Well, that means I go in for free, but my guess will be that it will cost each of these men the price of two heads each,” Hobbler said cheerfully.

Fenelon started to protest, but Gareth took his arms and frowned in a manner he hoped would convey that Hobbler needed to handle this part of the transaction.

“Make it two and a half each, and I’ll throw in a lantern or two and some dried meat and hard cheese,” the landlord said. “In my experience, long legs can’t see in the dark, and they get hungry after a short time.”

“That’s because our eyes are above our knees,” Fenelon said.

The silence that fell was as frightening as a tomb. Gareth wanted desperately to punch Fenelon in the face for that remark, but there was nothing to be done for it now.

“In that case,” the landlord said darkly. “Five gold sgillinns a man or the way is barred.”

Hobbler turned and looked helplessly at Gareth.

“The price is fair, considering the insult my son laid unfairly on you and your kindred, sir,” Gareth said, and for good measure, he lashed out and cuffed Fenelon up the back of the head.

“Hey!” Fenelon snarled and looked as though he wanted to retaliate. “That hurt!”

“As it was meant to,” Gareth said. Fenelon set his mouth in a straight line, but he held his temper in check.

The landlord nodded, looking satisfied now. Gareth reached into his belt pouch and dealt out the gold sgillinns, counting them one at a time just so Fenelon could see what his tongue had cost them. The landlord snatched the coins up and slid them into a pouch under his dirty apron. He then turned and took a massive set of keys off a hook behind his bar and started for a doorway.

“Move lively, long legs,” he said. “I haven’t all day.”

Gareth pushed Fenelon after the landlord whom Hobbler was already following through the door. They had to duck to enter the area, and there were stairs and a low ceiling. To make matters worse, the landlord took his time with the descent. Gareth had a feeling the landlord was making certain they felt every step in their backs and necks.

Thank you so much, my son,
he groused inwardly.

At length, they reached the bottom, and there was a cellar with a higher ceiling, and shelves piled and stocked with all manner of goods and provisions. The landlord looked at none of these, but walked straight past a row of ale kegs and wine casks and stopped at an iron door. He tried several of the keys before finding the one that would turn in the massive lock. When it did, he stepped back and gestured to the door.