“So all is forgiven?”
“Well, yes and no. They’ve forgiven my actions, but they haven’t forgotten about the armor and weapons the slavers took from me. Khalid has assured me that the costs will be taken from my wages.” Nicholas shrugged. “Which is as it should be; a soldier is responsible for his own equipment. As I said, he’s a fair man.”
Tabor walked into the barracks, and Nicholas immediately stood at attention. Grisham, not yet having a soldier’s ways drilled into him to the point of reflex, scrambled to follow suit.
Tabor strode directly toward them. “At ease, men.” He pulled something from his tunic—a small box wrapped in a silk ribbon. “Grisham, this is a gift from the princess. She wishes you to have it.”
Grisham took the wooden box, then looked uncertainly at Tabor.
“Well, go on, open it. I already know what’s inside.”
Grisham opened the box to find only a note.
Tabor asked hesitantly, “Do you need me to read it for you, apprentice?”
“No, sir, I can read.”
He read aloud.
Grisham,
Thank you for your valuable advice. I have arranged for you to enjoy unlimited servings of my stew at Madam Mizmer’s food stall in the main marketplace. I hope it helps.
—Arabelle
“You lucky dog,” said Nicholas. “Just don’t get too fat or you won’t be able to do all your master’s laundry.”
Tabor knelt down in front of Grisham. “Apprentice, it is clear our princess has taken a liking to you. I’m sure you understand that, if I’m to allow this contact between you, you’ll be expected to keep yourself entirely out of trouble. It’s my responsibility to ensure the safety of everyone in this caravan—but especially the princess.”
Grisham nodded. “I would never dishonor myself nor abuse my friendship with Arabelle.”
Tabor frowned. “You are to address her as Princess. Princess Arabelle, if you must. Respect is due to the family that carries the heavy burden of responsibility for our people.”
Grisham stammered. “Y-yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Also please thank the princess for me. I cannot express how much this gift means to me.”
Tabor grunted. “The princess is a very generous young woman, but she’s no fool. Apparently you gave her some wisdom that she found valuable, so I’m sure she considers it an even trade.”
“Yes, sir.”
Tabor stood and turned to go, but then he stopped and looked back at Nicholas. “I expect to hear that there will be no more drinking on your part, soldier.”
And as he walked out of the tent, all Nicholas could do was sputter.
It was still hours before daybreak, but Grisham couldn’t sleep anymore. He wasn’t used to the long nights here in the caravan—back in the mines, their rest periods must have been much shorter. It also didn’t help that Oda was snoring like a beast on the cot next to him. The big dwarf’s beard covered him like a blanket that fluttered with every exhalation.
Grisham felt his own patchy fringe. It seemed it would never grow in. He hated that he still looked like a child.
Rolling out of bed, he stepped outside for some fresh air. As he walked to the edge of the caravan, one of the soldiers on patrol spoke up mockingly. “Careful, young dwarf. I’ve heard the prowling of wolves out there. You might look like a tasty snack, if not a very filling one.”
Grisham ignored the jab and continued on into the darkness of the night.
One thing he’d learned since mingling with the other races was that they were nearly blind without the light from the sun or a torch. It was a strange defect. There was always natural light around—most rocks, for instance, gave off a small amount of phosphorescence—but apparently those without Ta’ah vision could not see it. They were reliant on the extreme brightness of the aboveground world. The sun, the stars, even the moon was oftentimes so bright that he often wished it would dim a bit so that he could see more of the world’s natural glow.
He found a quiet spot in the grasslands about a quarter mile from the caravan’s lights, sat down, and breathed in the smell of freedom. It was still a daily revelation to him that he was no longer in the mines. He was free, and could make of this life what he wanted.
If only he knew what he wanted.
And perhaps it didn’t matter. He recalled Seder’s words.
“Your destiny is to bring your people out of self-imposed isolation. You must find the Thariginian king and, as the representative of your people, strike an agreement with him.”
The problem was, Grisham had no idea how to do that. How does one find a king that doesn’t exist?
As he sat in the still of the night, he saw the aura of a lone wolf surveying its surroundings. It gave out a yip that translated to, “Who is there?”
Grisham didn’t mean to do it. He was just watching the wolf, thinking about it, and before he knew it, it just… happened. His arms and legs cracked. His nose elongated. Shooting pains wracked his body. His vision reoriented.
He was a wolf.
He smelled the other wolf, tasted the sweet musk of she-wolf scent. And he sent a yip of his own to announce his presence.
The wolf advanced slowly, sniffing the air. She growled, the hair on her nape standing on end. “You smell of two-legs, stranger. What are you?”
The she-wolf’s smell was intoxicating. In fact, the new smells he was experiencing were overwhelming, making his mind reel with all the new sensations.
The howl of a male wolf pierced the grasslands. Grisham stood quickly on all four legs, suddenly afraid.
The she-wolf growled a warning. “Stay away, strange wolf that smells of two-legs. You would not be welcomed by he who leads.” She turned and trotted away in the direction of the sound of the howl.
Grisham sat back down on his haunches. It was only when he noticed the motion of torches along the edge of the caravan that he remembered.
I am of the Ta’ah.
I should go back before I am missed.
He released the image of the wolf. Once more he felt the shooting pains as his body changed, and he was Grisham once again.
He was also naked; his clothes had fallen off during the transformation. He made a mental note to plan for this in the future.
As he hastily dressed, he heard the distant sound of horses approaching from the south. His mind immediately came to one conclusion.
Slavers.
The same sentry met Grisham as he ran back into the perimeter of the caravan.
“The wolves chasing you, little one?”
Grisham panted and shook his head. “I heard horses galloping.”
The soldier’s joking manner vanished. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
The soldier blew a whistle, and within moments, a dozen soldiers had joined them, including Oda. By now the horses were louder, and some of the soldiers could hear them as well.
“Could it be slavers?” Grisham asked nervously.
Oda’s hand fell on his shoulder. “Don’t ya be worryin’, Grisham. Slavers be dependin’ on sneak attacks like the cowardly curs that they are. Horses make too much noise.”
More soldiers appeared, these on horseback. The sentry explained what the alert was about, and they rode off to investigate.
As they vanished into the dark, Oda pulled Grisham aside. “Now p’raps you’d like to explain what you be doin’ wanderin’ about at such an hour.”
Grisham’s mind raced. He liked the dwarf, but he’d learned his lesson about letting others know about himself.
“I’m sorry, Oda. My sleep is often disturbed by memories of my father’s death, and what occurred in the mines. Sometimes walking alone helps me to flush the images from my mind.”
Oda nodded with understanding and pulled his fingers through his thick beard. “I know what you’ve been through has been difficult. I’ll not be insultin’ you by saying that those memories will be goin’ away. But you’ll learn to deal with them.” He gave Grish
am a rough pat on the shoulder. “I find that the best way to get me mind off troubles is by keepin’ too busy to tink about such things. Come. Follow me.”
With regret, Grisham realized that somehow his lie had just increased his already heavy workload.
Oda led him to the corral. “These be horses, as I expect you know. They’re much too large and stupid lookin’, but they be friendly to those who give them treats.” He picked up a bag of quizoa fruit and handed it to Grisham. “And as warriors of diminutive stature, it be wise for us to make friends where we can.”
Grisham took out one of the green fruits and waved it in front of the nearest horse. The horse leaned down, snuffled at his hand, extended its lips, and grabbed the treat with a wet smacking sound.
The other horses immediately circled around, and when Grisham pulled the next fruit from the bag, three horses pushed their heads forward aggressively.
Grisham hid the fruit under his tunic. “Patience! You beasts are greedy. One at a time.”
He waited for the horses to take a half step back before he pulled the quizoa out again. Immediately they all shoved their heads forward again. Grisham laughed and began leading them on a chase around the corral. He barely even noticed when Oda left him alone with his new charges.
Just as Grisham finished playing with the horses, more came clopping toward the corral.
“Oda!” shouted a soldier’s voice. “We found some horses tailor-made for you and your apprentice!”
“Bah!” came Oda’s reply. “You won’t be getting’ me on one of dem things, I don’t care what you be offerin’ me.”
Grisham’s curiosity was piqued, and he left the corral to see what was going on. A group of soldiers were gathered outside the corral, Oda among them, as a line of horses was led into the caravan, tied into a train by long leather ropes. Some were clearly more wild than others, and they reared up, resisting being herded toward the corral.
Two horses near the front stood out. They were the smallest horses Grisham had ever seen.
Oda spotted them as well. “Ah, now I see what yer talkin’ about!”
The dwarf jogged over to meet the first of the two horses, which was brown with a long black mane. As Oda patted its nose, the miniature horse’s nostrils flared with uncertainty.
“Now this be a proper mountain pony!” Oda pronounced. “Wherever did these beasts come from?”
The scout leader shrugged. “I don’t rightly know. None of them have proper markings of ownership on their hide, yet some, like the little beast you’ve fallen for, are clearly not afraid of men, and must have been owned in the past.”
“Grisham!” Oda called. “Bring me some of those quizoa. I aim to show you how to ride one of these beasties.”
Oda untied his chosen horse from the others, and as the remaining horses were led into the corral, he began to teach his young apprentice.
“Step one, Grisham: earn the trust of the beast, and never betray it.”
Life Is Tough
When Maggie didn’t arrive to help Arabelle with her training, Arabelle went to Maggie’s tent to seek her out. She feared she might find her handmaiden had fallen ill, but what she found instead was a woman who was a complete mess. Maggie’s eyes were bloodshot, her nose was running, and she’d clearly been crying.
“Milady! I’m sorry for you to see me like this. Is it already time for your training?”
“Maggie, forget about that! What’s wrong?”
Maggie’s chin quivered. “Hassan is gone.”
Arabelle felt relief at this announcement. Her dreams had recently been very troubled, so her imagination had strayed to things much worse than a broken heart.
“What do you mean he’s gone? I saw him leaving on a scouting patrol just last week.”
Maggie broke down and sobbed, tears flowing down her face. “He disappeared from the caravan several days ago, and nobody’s seen him since.”
Arabelle embraced her friend and let Maggie cry on her shoulder. “Are you sure he wasn’t on a longer scouting mission? They do that on occasion. I can ask Tabor if you like.”
Maggie pulled back and took in a deep, shuddering breath. “I already asked Khalid. He said Hassan left in the middle of the night. Khalid isn’t even worried—he says the Nameless aren’t to be trusted, so I shouldn’t concern myself about him.” She looked Arabelle in the eye. “But Khalid is wrong. Hassan was honorable and good. He wouldn’t have left without a good reason, and I’m certain he would have said something to me.”
Arabelle was at a loss as to how to help. She had no experience with such matters of the heart.
“Maggie,” she said, “you may not feel this way right now, but I believe that things usually end up the way they are meant to. I’m afraid that only time will heal your hurt.”
Maggie gave a noisy sniff. “Thank you, milady. You’re right. I need to get my mind off worrying for him and back to more important things. What can I do for you?”
The poor woman. Even in this state she felt obligated to serve her mistress. Arabelle wasn’t having it.
“What you can do for me is take care of yourself today. We’ll skip training and duties. Why don’t you accompany me to Madam Mizmer’s and I can show you my latest recipe? I’m working on a spiced lamb dish, and you can tell me what you really think before I give it to Father.”
Maggie smiled and dabbed at her eyes. “Very well, but I hope it isn’t like last time. I swear I was tasting garlic for days.”
Arabelle grimaced. “Yes, I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know that garlic came apart. So when the recipe called for three cloves of garlic, I thought that meant three bulbs. When I told Madam Mizmer what I did, she shrieked with laughter.”
Maggie giggled through her sniffs. “Well… it is pretty funny.”
“Let’s just hope I don’t make the same mistake with fire peppers.”
Arabelle pulled from beneath her bed the chest her father had given her, and unlocked it with its key. It was a wonderful gift, for she needed a safe place to store her growing collection of secrets: the dagger from Castien; the tincture recipe from the old crone; and the book from her father.
It was the latter that she pulled out now. She hadn’t even unwrapped it yet; her father’s warnings had made her feel hesitant to read what lay within. But the time had come.
She pulled back the protective cloth wraps to reveal an ancient tome. It smelled of the forest, and its leather binding was engraved with strange symbols.
As Arabelle opened the book, she saw that it was written in two languages. On the left-hand pages was clear dark Trimorian text, and on the right-hand pages was faded writing in a brown ink that was flaking off the parchment. She didn’t recognize the faded language, but it employed some of the same characters from the cover of the book. Apparently the Trimorian was a translation of this unknown tongue.
The first page was a note from someone named Bryan Greenwalker.
I am but a humble servant of the elven people. These words you read are not my own, but the words of a depraved dwarf soul who spent time with someone he believed to be Nicnevin, our queen from many thousands of years ago. Despite its title, the story of Nicnevin is not for this book, but suffice it to say that according to the legend, Nicnevin challenged the gods and was forever cast down to live at the end of the world.
Many have searched for this mythical “end of the world,” but none have found it, nor has any document or creature possessed even a hint of its whereabouts.
Until now.
Two weeks ago, this book’s author stumbled into Eluanethra, naked and alone. How this dwarf managed to wander into the stronghold of our people without our scouts noticing is still a mystery. In his hands he clutched this book, which he had apparently written with his own blood. He shouted crazed warnings about the doom of all of Trimoria and the end of the world. He raved of demons yet to come, and of a savior amongst the humans which we must join. And he demanded that he be presented to the Archmage of Seder.
Since we knew of no such person, most among our people thought the dwarf crazy.
Xinthian is not so certain. He asked that I take the dwarf seriously and talk with him. Unfortunately the dwarf is fevered, and nothing we've been able to do has helped him. I fear that he will perish soon unless something changes.
With the assistance of my apprentice, Eglerion Mithtanion, I have translated the dwarf’s blood script into modern Trimorian and included it on these pages. And on the off chance that it is meaningful, I have also placed notes within this book from the fevered ravings of the lunatic. If any of what he says comes to pass, I fear for the survival of our race.
—Bryan Greenwalker
Arabelle spent the next several hours reading with fascination. The entire book was a series of prophecies—and much of the future described had already come to pass. The dwarf had predicted the demon war, a human figure that certainly sounded like the First Protector, and the great isolation between the three races. All of these events were laid out in detail—but in future tense.
Were these actual prophecies? Or were these descriptions of historical events written to look like prophecies?
How old was this book?
Some of the events described were things Arabelle had never heard told. For instance, it said that Sammael’s seed was stolen, and that Seder’s seed was hidden by the Ta’ah.
The mention of Seder sent a shiver up Arabelle’s spine.
She didn’t know what to make of this book, but she knew it was important. More important even than her father had realized. There was a reason it had fallen into her hands. Perhaps, like her, this book had its own destiny.
Arabelle’s body continued to change. While she’d continued her exercises—Castien’s workouts, dagger training, and now stealth training as well—she’d also learned to eat enough to make up for all that energy she was expending. As a result, her muscles now had pleasing curves. Even her arms didn’t look like sticks anymore. She was particularly pleased by the little calluses that she’d developed on her thumb and forefinger, formed from gripping a dagger. All of these changes were physical proof of her hard work.
Agent of Prophecy Page 14
