Riddle In Stone (Book 1)

by Robert Evert

  Nothing happened.

  Cursing himself and the alcohol clouding his head, Edmund leaned against the doorway, closed his eyes, and tried again. “Fyre av nå!”

  A blue spark appeared, followed by a red flame creeping over the lamp’s wick.

  His body sunk deeper into grey weariness.

  You’re not actually going to go through with this, are you?

  Why not? How hard could it be?

  You’re mad! You’re completely and utterly mad!

  Edmund stumbled into the living room, knowing that the weariness from the spell would pass. It always did.

  You can’t leave! This is your home. You’re supposed to get married and raise children here.

  Nobody is going to marry me. Besides, I want to see the world! I want to do . . . something, anything!

  “It’s now or never!” he declared to the house, surprised at how easily the words flowed from him. “It’s now or I’ll sim-sim-simply die of boredom and regret!”

  Die here alone . . .

  He hastened to the storage room. There he found a battered backpack that he always meant to put to use. Pack in hand, he bounded into the library. Thirty-three hundred and sixty-two books greeted him like trusted childhood friends—books of ancient mythologies and faerie tales, firsthand accounts of the initial human-goblin wars, priceless biographies of heroes of old, and other rarities that only he had ever read.

  As if running into an invisible wall of cherished memories, he stopped.

  If he went through with his plan, he’d never see his treasures again, none of them.

  It’s not too late to end this madness. Go to bed and sleep it off.

  “I’m going!” Edmund announced to the books, his words echoing in the still darkness. Then he added as if in apology, “I have to.”

  The books didn’t answer.

  Storming to his desk, he retrieved the small key hidden underneath the cushion on his chair and unlocked the right-hand drawer. Sifting through scrolls and parchments, he drew forth a pouch of gold coins and several maps of the western foothills where the tower of Tol Helen lay in ruins.

  He studied the maps.

  I don’t need these.

  He had them all memorized. He could close his eyes and visualize every road, every contour line of the countryside, every detail that the maps depicted. He stared at the books again. He had them all memorized as well. He could recite each one of them word for word by heart, even those written in the languages of the Elder Days when the continent was first being divided into human kingdoms. Like a broken crutch, they were all useless to him.

  Useless . . .

  He surveyed the rows upon rows of shelves, each neatly lined with books and manuscripts and scrolls of incalculable value. There wasn’t anything there that he needed. Nothing. He spent so much of his time acquiring them from the occasional traveler, reading them, studying their every nuance—and now they were useless.

  All that time wasted . . .

  “A sword!” Edmund shouted, his soul leaping. He’d finally be able to strap a sword to his side like an actual adventurer.

  Rummaging through the contents of a nearby chest, he found his father’s short sword wrapped in the remains of a dusty blanket. He drew it from its threadbare sheath. Lamp light glinted dully off its smoke-colored blade. Edmund marveled at its edge.

  I haven’t touched this in more than ten years, maybe even fifteen—and it’s still as sharp as a butcher’s knife.

  Father always said that it was exceptional. He told you to keep it safe. Running around with it isn’t keeping it safe!

  Edmund waved the sword in front of him.

  I’d forgotten how light it was.

  You’re going to lop off an ear with that thing. Put it back. You’re acting like a drunken fool! What’s going to happen to the house and all of your books if you leave?

  He hadn’t thought of that before. He couldn’t just abandon everything.

  Then an idea came to him—a wonderful and inspired idea that might take care of two problems at once. Delighted, he laughed aloud.

  Snatching a piece of paper and a quill from his desk, he wrote a line, then another, followed by several more. Soon he had the entire page filled. With an unsteady flourish, he signed his name at the bottom, adding an emphatic period at the end.

  Are you sure this is wise?

  She could use a decent place to live.

  That’s not why you’re doing this. You’re hoping it’ll make her love you!

  Imagining her reaction to his gift, he didn’t deny it.

  You’re going to regret this. This is your house! It belonged to your parents. You’re just going to give everything away?

  Edmund fastened his short sword to his belt. Immediately, he felt half as old and twice as happy. He laughed again.

  Now stop! Just stop!

  Grinning ear to ear, Edmund hesitated.

  Why are you doing this? Is it because of what happened with the storyteller? People will forget about that in time.

  No! It’s not that.

  Is it about becoming a Lord? Do you really want to rule other people? Telling them what to do? Trying to solve all of their problems? That’s not what you want, is it? Do you actually see yourself as Lord of the Highlands?

  It’s not about becoming a Lord.

  Then what? Why are you going to throw everything away? Why are you doing this?

  Edmund fell into the chair behind the desk with the thud of a man facing more problems than he knew how to handle. He thought for a moment, trying to piece together all of the emotions, all of the thoughts swirling around his head.

  It’s about . . .

  What?

  He sighed.

  A hundred other adventurers are going to be searching for the Star, real adventurers, people who make their living rescuing princesses in tall towers.

  Nobody ever does that!

  That’s not the point. They will all be looking for the Star, all these respected men. Big, strong men. The best of the best! And it’s going to be stupid, stuttering Edmund from Rood who will find it. Me. It isn’t the Star. It isn’t about becoming Lord of the Highlands. It’s about . . . me.

  For a moment, the doubts in his head subsided.

  I want to do something with my life. Otherwise . . .

  He fiddled with the black pommel of his sword, unconsciously picking at its small red stones.

  Otherwise, everything would be pointless. Living with no purpose, getting up in the morning, moving around, doing nothing of actual value, going to bed only to do everything again the next day and the next and the next . . . It’s a waste. I don’t want to live like this anymore. I want my life to matter. I want to accomplish . . . something!

  Are you really just going to leave?

  Why should I stay?

  The question jarred him.

  Why should he?

  Nothing came to mind. Absolutely nothing.

  What about Molly?

  The doubt came surging back. How could he possibly leave Molly? What was he thinking?

  But then Norb’s words surfaced in his mind. “Do you honestly see her with a fella like us? Or do you see her more with a guy like this storyteller? That’s all that I’m really saying.”

  No. No, I don’t honestly see her with me.

  The realization wasn’t nearly as painful as he thought it would be. Despite how much he had dreamed and wished and hoped and prayed, he knew Molly wouldn’t be interested in somebody like him.

  I’m too boring . . .

  Maybe if I become Lord of the Highlands, she’ll—

  Forcing the thought out of his head, he glanced out the window. It was too dark for him to see anything, but he knew his backyard like he knew his own face. In the blackness waited his garden, overgrown with weeds he always meant to pull, a broken bench he had always meant to fix, and the flowering poplar tree from which he found his mother hanging when he was fourteen. He’d been alone ever since.

&nbs
p; “Why should I stay?” he asked the house.

  Silence answered him.

  Chapter Four

  Okay. Try it again. Once last time.

  Patting his sweaty brow with a damp handkerchief, Edmund took a deep breath. “Six sl-sl-sleek, sleek sw-swans sw-sw-swam, swam sw-sw-sw-i-iftly s-s-southwards.”

  How long have you been practicing that? Thirty-something years? You’re always going to stutter like an imbecile.

  Maybe it’ll go away. I’ve read about instances where—

  It won’t just go away. You’re an idiot like everybody says.

  Edmund adjusted his backpack again. Sweat dribbled into his eyes as he trudged along the road heading east, away from Rood. He had only been walking for a few hours, it was barely midnight, but sharp pains were stabbing at his calves, thighs, and lower back. His breath whistled when he inhaled. More burning pain filled his lungs.

  Maybe it’s time to stop for a bit and eat something. I’m starving. I didn’t have dinner.

  Never mind that, just focus. Ignore the pain.

  There wouldn’t be any pain if you were at home. Nice warm, soft bed. Hot bath. Your muscles could be soaking right now. Why don’t you turn back? It isn’t too late. You could get home before dawn, before anybody realizes you left. Molly won’t find the note until the Rogue closes for the night.

  Shut up. Think about something else. Think about finding Iliandor’s Star. Picture the faces of all those adventurers as I present it to King Lionel! Maybe after the Star, I’ll try to find the Lost City of Gold!

  You’re a fool. And you’re going to get yourself killed.

  Swabbing his handkerchief across his face and neck, he surveyed his surroundings.

  To his left, the ancient oak trees flanking the road had fallen away into a broad valley. Peaceful meadows rolled like an emerald ocean, the subtle smell of their wildflowers lingering in the autumn air. Far off to the north were rows of corn, ready to be harvested and sent to Rood’s mill. To the south, nestled between the arms of two hills, a lake shone in the soft moonlight, stars appearing to float in its still waters. He marveled at the scene, momentarily forgetting his pains.

  It’s beautiful out here. I should have left years ago.

  But he didn’t admire these sites for long. He knew an overly long pause might allow cramps to set into his already aching legs. He wanted to keep a good, steady pace and allow his body to fall into a mindless rhythm as the miles staggered by. So he walked through the midnight hour, the silver tip of his walking stick digging into the grey track in front of him with a determined thud, his sword swishing back and forth on his left hip.

  The bright moon climbed higher into the black sky. Eerie shadows from tree limbs reached across the road like the groping arms of skeletons. Chimney swifts and hog-nosed bats darted overhead, chasing whatever insects they could find. An owl hooted. Countless crickets chirped in the night around him.

  Edmund trudged along, his eyes affixed to the ground, his weapon and walking stick keeping the same steady tempo they had been since his leaving Rood. He exhaled, wondering whether he should finally camp for the night.

  There was rustling behind him.

  Edmund stopped, his body jolted by the sudden lack of movement. He listened.

  Nothing.

  It’s only my imagination. I’m still by the farmlands. There’s nothing to worry about.

  If you’re afraid now, just wait until you get farther from home. Why not turn back? A hot bath would do your body a world of good right now. You probably stink worse than Norb.

  He took four steps eastward, trying to force his complaining legs back into their previous rhythm. Then he heard the noise again, a crunching sound in the tall grass growing alongside the road, maybe a hundred feet behind him and to his right.

  Edmund’s pace quickened.

  So too did the noise.

  Bandits?

  Here?

  It doesn’t matter. Run!

  Edmund began running, his arms and legs pumping wildly, his ample belly and pack bouncing up and down. More sweat trickled from his already-matted hair. His breath came in sharp wheezes.

  Behind him, he heard pursuit.

  Run faster! It’s gaining!

  I can’t run any faster!

  Sprinting as fast as he could manage, Edmund turned his head to see how far behind his assailants were. His feet tangled and he fell, tumbling end over end into one of the ruts in the road, debris flying out of the top of his backpack and scattering into the darkness. When he finally came to a stop, he found himself lying face up on his pack, like an upside down turtle, his head bleeding, his clothes soiled and torn.

  Somewhere in the blackness behind him, his pursuer stopped. However, Edmund wasn’t going to take any chances. Gathering his wits, he threw his considerable weight to one side and rolled over, diving for the walking stick that was lying in the dirt a few yards away. He grabbed it with both hands and got to his knees. Then, remembering his father’s short sword, he cast the walking stick aside and fumbled for the hilt.

  In front of him, something crawled along the road.

  Edmund drew the sword forth, cutting the palm of his left hand along its razor sharp edge. He cried out. The bloody blade glinted in the moonlight.

  A dark figure continued creeping closer.

  “Who, who goes there?” Edmund cried in a voice that was far less commanding than he desired. “Friend or f-foe?”

  Silence.

  The low black shape slinked nearer.

  A wolf?

  Oh no!

  Struggling to his feet, Edmund gripped the hilt of his short sword with both hands. Blood dripped to the dry ground. He shot a glance behind him. Where there was one wolf, he once read, there was always more. That was how they hunted their prey. They formed ever tightening circles and then attacked from the direction least expected.

  Keeping one eye on the figure in the road, Edmund swung his sword around, attempting to look in all directions at once. He saw nothing but tree trunks wrapped in darkness and shafts of silver moonlight streaming through the branches reaching overhead.

  The figure came out of the grass, took a step toward Edmund and, to Edmund’s amazement, sat down.

  Edmund glanced behind himself again and then looked closer at the intruder, all the while straining to hear past the sounds of his thudding heart.

  What the—?

  It was a dog, a black and white, longhaired mutt of a dog, her mouth open, her pink tongue hanging to one side as she panted. She tilted her head, thoughtfully studying Edmund.

  Thinking that he might be in some sort of bizarre trap, Edmund whirled around again, blood trickling from his maimed palm.

  Puzzled, the dog peered around as well and then returned her gaze to the spinning Edmund.

  Satisfied that they were alone, Edmund lowered his blade. “Damn it,” he said, flexing his bleeding hand. “Damn it! You, you scared the cr-cr-cr-crap out of me.”

  The dog raised her floppy ears.

  “Get going! Go! Yah! Get out of here!” Edmund kicked at the air in front of his near-assailant.

  The dog considered his boot for a moment, but didn’t show any signs of going anywhere.

  “Damn it!” Edmund repeated, examining his hand and torn clothing. “Look what you made me do!”

  He touched his forehead and felt the blood pooling above his brow.

  Your first battle wounds! Maybe you could find a tavern and tell everybody your harrowing tale.

  Shut up.

  They might give you free food and drinks.

  Shut up.

  The women will hang on your every word.

  Shut up!

  Edmund considered the dog waiting in the middle of the road. “Wh-what, what are you? A, a herding breed or something? Are you from the ranches around here?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Go! Go back to whatever farm you came from. Go away.”

  Bending over, Edmund began picking up everything
that had come out of his backpack, ready with his sword just in case the dog leapt at him from behind and ripped ferociously into his tender flesh. But she didn’t. She merely watched him as he retrieved his belongings.

  “Oh, great. Look at this.” He held up the small lantern and shook it at the dog. “It’s dented. And, and I bet that it’s going to leak. I’m going to light it and, and, and it’ll burst into flames or something! Damn it.”

  She didn’t seem too worried.

  “And this, this, this food is ruined,” Edmund went on, picking up pieces of dried beef from the ground. He tried dusting the dirt off, but ended up wiping more dirt and blood onto them. “Great. Just great.”

  He faced the dog. “I said, go!” He threw a strip of dried and bloody beef back the way they had come.

  The dog watched it sail over her head into the darkness. She turned to see what else he was going to throw.

  “What? Hey, that’s, that’s good beef. Go get it. Go!”

  Edmund contemplated throwing something else, but thought better of it. “Fine. Let some other, more intelligent, animal get it.”

  Surveying the surrounding area in the shadowy starlight one last time, Edmund began walking eastward, his legs stiffening. Getting up, the dog followed.

  “Oh no. No. Go! Go home. Do you hear me? Go home.”

  The dog matched his pace.

  “Go!”

  She kept trotting behind him, her tail wagging high in the air.

  “Fine. But you’ll just have a longer walk home later.”

  For a half a mile, Edmund limped down the road, constantly aware of the dog a handful of paces behind him. Cramps were pinching at the back of his legs. His knees felt like hinges that were rusting in place. Eventually, the stiffness in his lower back prevented him from going any further. He halted.

  “Well, I . . . I don’t know what your plans are,” he said to the dog, who appeared to be wondering why they had stopped walking. “But I’m camping here. You go wh-where-wherever you like.”

  She watched with fascination as he untied his bedroll from the top of his pack.

  “Go.”

  She watched him carefully brush aside every stone that he could find and unravel his bedroll.