by Jaxon Reed
Kirt swiveled, looking between Bartimo and Bellasondra. Bartimo seemed quite unhappy. Bellasondra ignored him, keeping her eyes on Stin, her arms wrapped tight around his neck and shoulders.
Kirt wondered if Bellasondra’s absence would affect Bartimo’s plans to start a house of his own. Surely not, he thought. Bartimo needed a wife, not a sister. Still, the politics might come into play. Lady Leddia managed one of the oldest and most prestigious houses in Refugio, and Palento’s widow had hinted she could get them both married into the family. That would surely provide an excellent start to a new house. But returning without Bellasondra might put a wrinkle in those plans, Kirt thought.
Stin said to Kirt, “By the looks on both of your faces, it doesn’t look like I’m talking either one of you out of it.”
Kirt shook his head and said, “We’re not letting you out of our sight again, sirrah!”
Stin smiled, but Kirt sensed a sudden pang of guilt, or remorse, in the thief’s eyes. What did he say to cause such a reaction?
“Bellasondra and I have already discussed this,” Bartimo said. “And it’s been decided. I wish you could all sail home with me. But, what will be, will be. My sister is her own woman, and I cannot make her return with me.”
A call came out from the ship and the passengers started boarding. Bartimo patted Kirt on the back and hugged his sister. He clasped arms with Stin and said, “Take Horse. I don’t think he’d enjoy another sailing trip. He’s yours anyway. He’ll be a fine companion on the road.”
“Thanks, Bartimo. We’ll try to make our way to Refugio once I’ve returned the dagger.”
Bartimo nodded. After a final hug with his sister, he turned and boarded the ship.
Stin turned to Bellasondra and smiled at her. He said, “Come on. Let’s go find the Forlorn Dagger.”
They walked down toward the warehouse with Kirt following close behind.
-+-
Mita stood with Oldstone on an outcrop of rock. The flying castle stood on a chunk of flat mountaintop that coned downwards. The ledge they stood on broke away from the rest of the mountain and sailed down toward the island below.
The wind whipped around them, and she felt cold. Oldstone had explained they were far to the north, in an uninhabited part of the island chain. Instinctively, she grew her magical armor from its band around her wrist to cover most of her body, protecting her from the cold wind. Oldstone seemed unperturbed by the chill. Perhaps he had cast a warming spell on himself, she thought.
She reached down and felt her middle, through the armor. The skin was smooth again. She had no more scars. Somehow, once she had figured out the mind monster was a product of her own making, the damage it had inflicted on her no longer manifested itself. She had cast a final healing spell on herself and felt completely whole, inside and out.
Below them, an angry blue sea crashed against a rocky shore, frothy white wave tops splattering against a barren coastline. She tried to make out more of the land’s features, but inland was covered in a thick, featureless fog.
Quickly they descended, the ground seeming to rush up to meet them. The ledge alighted on a rocky cliff top, the ocean far below and the fog spread out before them. Oldstone stepped off, and Mita followed, her feet touching the island for the first time.
She said, “You know we can fly, Master.”
He nodded. “The question is, will you be able to fly afterwards?”
His statement sent a chill through her, despite the warmth provided by her armor. He had steadfastly refused to offer any hints about what the tests involved. This was the first time he had mentioned potential danger, although intellectually she had always presumed part of the trials would involve mortal peril.
Before them the fog parted, and a stone archway seemed to materialize out of the mists. Beyond it, she could see nothing but gray whirling clouds.
She said, “I take it that’s the way to go?”
Oldstone nodded.
“Any parting words of wisdom?”
He shook his head.
“Has anybody ever failed their trials? Anybody die trying?”
In response, Oldstone pointed at the arch again. He said, “Go and earn your stone. I’ll be here when you return.”
She nodded, knowing that further attempts at conversation would be futile. She walked to the arch and looked back. He stood there watching. He nodded, as if urging her to continue. She turned and stepped through.
On the other side, she felt completely immersed in the mist. It seemed almost like a liquid, swirling around her. Damp and cold, it filled her vision and her lungs. Even her mind.
At last it thinned and seemed to allow a globe of empty space to form around her. Outside the boundaries of clear air, the mist swirled. Its motion seemed malevolent. The smell of peat smoke filled her nostrils.
The mist turned darker in front of her. Murky tendrils swirled into a large circle, forming a face. Eyes opened, the size of dinner plates. A cruel mouth appeared, surrounded by a dark curly mustache and a short pointy beard.
The smell of burning peat grew worse. She breathed through her mouth to avoid the stench.
The misty lips moved, and she heard a whisper that seemed to be in her head more than her ears.
“Princess Mita. Welcome. I’ve waited a long time for someone of your abilities to challenge me.”
The face opened its mouth and a dark smoky tongue lashed out like a whip, striking her head. She reached up to cast a spell . . . and passed out.
-+-
Dudge walked along a narrow mountain trail, three guards in front and three following. The guards were a nuisance, but a tolerable one. And after the attempt on his life, the new guards were determined that no future attempts, however remote the chances, would be successful.
Indeed, several aspects of Dudge’s life had lately required an adjustment of preferences. Previously he had mostly traveled and worked in relative anonymity. But in Port Osmo, everyone knew him. There was nowhere he could go without being recognized.
For the most part he had been able to banish obsequiousness, which he detested. Several dwarves couldn’t seem to help themselves, though, even with his constant reminders to dispense with royal affirmations. And while he was willing to overlook the occasional fawning from somebody in the population meeting him for the first time, he had no tolerance for it in his guards.
“Jus’ do yer job,” he’d snap whenever one of them bowed too formally or offered flowery speech in his presence. These unearned accolades were something his brother might enjoy, but as far as Dudge was concerned there was too much work to be done in Osmo, and too little time for useless formalities and frivolities of court.
There had been little time for anything besides going through all the records he could find, and settling down into the city’s administrative routines. Countless decisions had to be made as he brought himself up to date concerning the vast web of bureaucracy involving dwarven trade flowing through the city. He set about the task of maintaining order, sorting the books, and effectively governing the place.
He grew frustrated waiting for word from Ore Stad. The isolation of Port Osmo seemed extraordinary. He regretted the wizard had not been able to bring Tun back.
But upon reflection, he knew that would not have worked either. The Council had probably not even decided what word to send him yet. Whatever distance their missive must cross, it had to be crafted first. That, Dudge knew, caused the greater delay.
Still, his father should have written by now, and he waited impatiently for the expected letter. But mail was slow in coming, usually arriving overland via wagon train. So he carried on without further guidance from home.
Late one night while going through records of receipts, he found several bills of sale signed by Rak. They piqued his curiosity. They dealt with the municipal quarry up in the Tantamooks. From what he could deduce, the workers had chanced upon a discovery in a shaft going deep into the mountain. Someone had evidently found something, becaus
e Rak paid for additional labor, wagons, and tools.
Rak had funneled quite a bit of money into the project, and Dudge suspected the additional gold scraped from illegal tolls had been used in part to fund whatever activities had taken place in the quarry.
So, Dudge decided to check things out on his own. This led to a flurry of activity among the guards, as they prepared to lead a contingent with him out of town. After some heated words with their captain, Dudge pared down their expected number to six. Behind the scenes, he knew there must have been some fighting about which six were to accompany him. He noticed that each one of his guards had fresh wounds: black eyes, bitten ears, bandages patched around the middle from where the healers had patched up wounds.
But Dudge dismissed the notion of guards fighting for the honor to accompany him as ridiculous. “It’s not like I’m th’ crown prince,” he told them as they departed through the rear gates of the city and headed toward the mountains.
“Aye,” one of them said. “Bu’ yer our prince.”
All six swelled their bandaged chests in pride, strutting along the road with him. They even ignored his dismissive “Phsaw!”
Perversely, he grumbled to himself, the more he expressed disdain for their respect, the more they seemed to show it. These provincial dwarves held some quaint notions about the Crown. Privately he thought if his brother ever visited, the popinjay would never leave. He’d simply stay and bask in all their adulation.
Although, he thought, reconsidering, perhaps the opposite would occur. Perhaps someone who enjoyed the attention would find themselves at the other extreme. Maybe the townsfolk would disdain someone who actually enjoyed being treated like royalty.
As he mulled that thought over, they crested a rise in the path and he stopped, looking down into a large quarry. Here, he knew, the stones used to construct most of Osmo had been taken from the base of the mountain.
He said, “Th’ entrance shoul’ be down yonder ways.”
He started off again, heading down the switchbacked pathway snaking into the quarry, the guards hurrying to catch up.
At the bottom of the vast squarish site, they found several shaft entrances leading into the mountain.
“Drainage,” one of the guards said.
Dudge nodded. The shafts headed down and would serve as conduits for water to evacuate, perhaps leading to an underground river or some cavernous reservoir.
“One o’ these led t’ somethin’ they foun’,” he said. “Split up an’ lookie fer somethin’ outta th’ ordinary. Nay harm will come t’ me here.”
The guards shared dubious glances with one another but followed his orders, their curiosity sufficiently stoked. Before long one of them who had gone to the right hollered out. He said, “Halloo! This un has a mark!”
The others converged on the shaft’s entrance to see what he had found. Dudge looked at the mark on the side of it and said, “Clan Slag’s crest. This be it.”
Before he could enter, the guards jumped in front of and behind him, each drawing their sword. Dudge gave a resigned sigh, but let them remain in formation. Together they entered the tunnel and headed down in single file, three before him and three following after.
The floor and sides grew damp as sunlight receded. Their eyes adjusted to the gloom as they headed further down. The going was cramped, but they could stand as they made their way carefully forward.
Dudge estimated they had walked a quarter mile into the mountain’s depths when they came across a narrow fissure that seemed to split the passageway in two. Heading to their right, the crack in the passageway led elsewhere.
“It occurred natural. Mayhap they came ’cross it by accident while diggin’ this out,” he said.
Only one could pass through at a time. The three guards in front insisted on going through first. Then Dudge squeezed through, followed by the others. The crack quickly grew wider. Soon it opened up into a larger tunnel sloping gently upwards.
They followed it several hundred steps, the tunnel growing larger the farther they ascended. Finally it opened into a large cavern, stalactites lining the ceiling.
“Somethin’ on th’ other side,” one of the guards said. Everyone squinted, their night vision stretching to the limit.
“Looks like a large door,” Dudge said.
He started toward it and the guards jumped into position, the wide cavern allowing more freedom of movement.
As they crossed the cavern’s floor, they could see the far wall was indeed dominated by a large, elaborate door. It reached up high, almost to the cavern’s ceiling 40 paces above. It looked to be fashioned from metal, and displayed a dwarven wizard in relief, standing as if prepared to cast a massive spell.
On the floor in front of the door, tools lay scattered. Pick axes, hammers, shovels, and other items were strewn about carelessly. Most seemed to be bent or broken.
“They tried t’ get in,” one of the guards said.
Dudge nodded. “Aye. An’ tools woul’ nay do it.”
“Blood on th’ floor,” another pointed out.
“Mayhap a spell on the door knocked them back.”
To the side, the beginning of a new tunnel had been carved out of the stone. Dudge walked over and poked his head through the opening.
“They tried diggin’ round th’ doorway. Dinna get far, though.”
He looked up, searching the metal entrance for any clue as to its purpose. High up, he made out an inscription. His eyes grew big as he read it.
“Lads, now I ken wha’ Rak were up to.”
The guards looked up, too. One of them said, “I kinna make it out. Wha’s it say, Yer Highness?”
Dudge said, “It reads, ‘Here lies Lok the Terrible. Fear his name, all ye enterin’.’”
He looked at his guards with round eyes. He said, “Rak foun’ Lok’s tomb, lads!”
Epilogue
The caravan trundled slowly to a stop. One of the drivers climbed down from his perch and made his way to the back of the last wagon. He flipped the canvas aside and looked in. The passenger stared back at him at eye level.
“Mile marker 20, as Your Lordship requested.”
Endrick tensed, his hand gripping the jailer’s shortsword which he had kept as a weapon. But the driver only smirked and walked away, heading back toward the front of the line. Endrick relaxed. The driver was only being sarcastic. His identity remained a secret.
He grabbed his bag and climbed out of the wagon just as it started moving again. He watched the caravan plod forward, disappearing over a rise in the road. Soon he stood alone in the middle of the Hidden Woods.
The sun’s position indicated several more hours of daylight remained. He turned and started walking back toward mile marker 19.
Actually, mile marker 18 was his true destination. When he handed over a small bag of silver to the caravaners, they thought his request to be dropped off in the middle of the forest rather odd. But, the ten pieces of silver he paid quelled any protests. What did they care if some odd fustilarian were dropped off in the woods, never to be seen again?
Endrick tried his best to cast spells of forgetfulness on the merchants that morning as they ate breakfast. He had no idea of the effectiveness of his efforts, but the fact they remembered to stop at mile marker 20 was not a good indicator of success. He had planned to simply jump out, using the slowness of the oxen’s pace to his advantage. But, someone had remembered their deal and they stopped to let him off.
No matter, Endrick thought. He felt rather proud of himself for concocting the subterfuge surrounding the mile markers in case his spell did not work.
By the time he made it to mile marker 19, he regretted his efforts at misdirection. The pauper’s clothes he had obtained were itchy, the cheap shoes had rubbed blisters on his feet, and he sweated in the sun beating down on the road.
He trudged on to cover his second mile, bitterly regretting his choice now. Unused to exercise, he pushed his feet forward, trying to ignore the pain and discomf
ort. Who would have cared what mile marker he was dropped off near?
At long last he rounded a bend and spied the marker with the number 18. He picked up his pace to close the gap. Reaching his destination at last, he plopped down under a tree, taking advantage of the shade and resting his feet. Thoughts of his royal bath back at the Emerald Palace and the soft bed in his old chambers crossed his mind. He angrily pushed them down, locking them somewhere deep inside. These steps were needed, he reminded himself, to retake what was rightfully his. To gain his revenge.
All the talk in the city swirled around the “glorious” return of Trant. Even the caravan drivers talked about it over their campfires. It took all of Endrick’s self control not to spit and lash out in rage at them when the conversation drifted in that direction. He retired to the spot in the wagon his silver had secured, instead.
For their part, the drivers left him alone. He must have seemed a strange one to them, dressed in peasant’s clothes but sporting a bag full of silver and requesting to be dropped off in the middle of nowhere. Fortunately for Endrick, his silver trumped their curiosity.
Now his goal was at hand. He sighed and considered pulling off the cheap shoes hurting his feet. No, he decided. If Thanden had done his part, a wizard should be appearing soon.
Somehow the sickly sprite had found him after he exited the secret tunnel. He ducked behind a tree with Thanden, hoping no one would see them.
He knew that Darkstone had friends on the Magic Council, other wizards who remained friendly with him. He knew also that Thanden had served as a link between them and Darkstone.
“Find those friends,” he told Thanden. “Find them, and let them know I live!”
Thanden made little affirmative trumpet noises, nodded vigorously, saluted, then promptly flew into the tree and passed out from the impact. Once Thanden recovered his senses, he saluted again and flew off in an erratic path before disappearing. Endrick had to believe the little creature delivered his message.
