by Mel Odom
“Oh, so ye’re new at this Boneblight fightin’, are ye?” the dwarf asked, eyeing Wick more boldly.
Wick thought quickly, not liking the idea of losing the sudden popularity he had gained. Being the center of attention, especially positive attention, felt quite good. And positive attention from others was something that dwellers enjoyed. He cleared his throat. “What I meant to say was that this is my first Boneblight today.” There, the little librarian thought as he looked at all the surprised faces around him, that sounded suitably impressive.
“Well, ye’re in luck this evening,” one crusty old salt stated, “’cause there was a mess of ’em a-headed thataway.” He pointed in the direction the human warder had run.
The warder! In all the excitement, Wick had forgotten about the man and Grandmagister Frollo’s package.
“An’ if ye’re in such an all-fired hurry to find them Boneblights,” the old salt said, “ye can even borrow Dhaobin’s horse.”
The crowd cheered and a sorrel gelding was quickly brought out. The saddlebags were stamped with the official seal of the Customs House.
“Dhaobin might not like me taking his horse,” Wick protested.
“Dhaobin delivers packages to them what can’t get out after them,” the old salt said. “He’s in the tavern yonder gettin’ a head start on sleepin’ off what’s gonna be a miserable bender. By the time he wakes up in the morning, ye’ll have done for all them Boneblights an’ that ol’ nag will be none the worse for it.” The old man turned to the others. “Get him up in that saddle, boys. Any man what wants to fight Boneblights and such surely deserves the loan of a good horse.”
Before Wick could politely turn down such a generous offer, he found himself lifted and put astride the sorrel. Someone slapped the reins into his hands, then slapped the horse on the rump, sending the animal careening wildly through the docks.
The little librarian held onto the saddle horn and yelled in fear. Dwellers aren’t men of action! he screamed inside his mind. We’re peace lovers, book lovers! He guessed that the men in the tavern had been too deeply into their cups to remember that. His feet didn’t reach the stirrups and he bounced crazily, almost falling off. The horse had the bit in its teeth and Wick was unable to pull back on the reins sufficiently hard enough to halt the fleeing creature. He only hoped it had enough sense to turn away from a Boneblight when it met one.
Hoarse shouts echoed up and down the ships along the docks. Dwarven sailors stirred from theirs vessels carrying axes, swords, and belaying pins in their mighty fists. In seconds, an army had formed from the Yondering Docks. And Wick, on the wildly galloping gelding, led them all, yelling, “Stop! Stop!”
For a fleeting moment the little librarian almost enjoyed the sensation of leading and wished that he had something elegant to say instead of screaming in fear. But perhaps the onlookers would only think that he was in a berserker rage, unwilling to stop until the Boneblights were destroyed. Actually, he was all for the Boneblights being destroyed; he was just afraid of being killed himself in the process.
Although he hadn’t thought it possible, Wick spotted the human warder ahead. Sailors of all races scattered before the warder when they discovered the manner of creatures pursuing him.
The horse drew abreast of the warder as the human darted under a cargo net hanging from a massive boom arm. The net contained crates of different sizes, as well as hogshead barrels and casks, suspended almost twenty feet in the air. The Boneblights dove, one flying slightly behind the other as they swooped after the human.
On the other side of the cargo netting, the warder lashed out with his sword, cleaving through the support hawser that held the net. The cargo net crashed down, narrowly missing both Boneblights and scattering sailors and goods in all directions. Vile oaths and vituperative language followed the warder and his attackers.
Wick didn’t know how the man could still run, but his long legs churned the ground. The warder changed directions like a big cat, turning almost instantly. A desperate look was on his face as he caught sight of Wick on the rampaging horse. Without any kind of warning, the warder turned his steps toward Wick and the horse, closing fast.
Why is he coming at me? Wick asked himself. The little librarian kicked the horse in the sides, his legs much too short to reach down into its withers. Unfortunately, the horse couldn’t go any faster. He watched helplessly as the warder ran up a short stack of crates just in time to intercept the horse.
The warder leaped from the crates, landing almost effortlessly on the horse’s broad back behind Wick. The human reached around Wick and took the reins from the little librarian.
“I have serious need of your horse for a moment, dweller,” the man said in a deep voice. “I beg your indulgence.” He put his feet into the horse’s sides. “Hee-yah!”
The gelding redoubled its efforts, stretching out into a longer stride.
Wick held onto the saddle horn, bouncing high with bone-jarring thumps, thinking he would be slung off at any moment. Fearfully, he turned and glanced behind himself and the warder. No! The Boneblights winged after them in pursuit. The malevolent red eyes gleamed.
Turning so much in the saddle left Wick unbalanced. He slipped and would have fallen from the horse had the warder not grabbed him quickly by the nape of the neck.
“Go easy there, little warrior,” the warder advised, clamping hold around the little librarian’s neck with a grip like iron.
“They’re chasing us,” Wick said.
A faint smiled pulled at the warder’s lips. “Yes.”
“Will they kill us?”
“Only if they catch us.”
And the sailors that just lost a net full of cargo aren’t going to be any too happy either, Wick realized. Those men had fallen in behind the Boneblights and he really didn’t think it was just for the joy of chasing Boneblights.
The warder tugged gently on the reins and laid a knee into the horse’s side. Instantly the great animal turned and followed the lead, rounding a stack of wine casks and leaping over a double-stacked crate of chickens. The chickens squawked in alarm, trying to scatter inside their cages and sending feathers flying.
The horse came down on wood planking, then galloped down the dock. The iron shoes rang and thumped against the split logs that made up the docks.
And the dock they were on, Wick observed with some anxiety, ended only a short distance ahead. “We really should stop.”
“The Boneblights will catch us.”
“Why did we come this way?”
“I’ve a ship to catch, and already it leaves without me.”
Looking out into the harbor, Wick spotted a three-masted caravel setting out into the Blood-Soaked Sea. “There’s always another ship.”
“Not one for a long time heading the way that one is.”
The horse’s hooves thundered against the dock. Wick tried in vain to spot the ship’s name. The running lights were lummin juice lanterns with multicolored lenses. “You’ve missed your ship,” Wick pointed out. “It’s too far out to sea.”
“Not yet.”
The strident screams of the Boneblights split the air behind them. Wick didn’t dare look, but he really didn’t think he could have taken his attention from the end of the dock, which was rapidly approaching. How do all the heroes in those stories live through such events as these? the little librarian asked himself. They fight monsters and evil men, and then they swagger around and drink ale all night. He just wanted a warm bed to crawl into—immediately.
“Here,” the warder commanded, handing Wick the reins.
“I really don’t think that’s a good idea,” the little librarian protested. “You see, the horse doesn’t listen when—”
“Make him,” the warder suggested. He placed his hands on the back of the saddle and pressed down, getting his feet under him on the horse’s rump. Then he leaped, throwing himself toward the nearest ship resting at anchor nearly ten feet away. “Good luck, little warrior.”
>
Amazed, Wick watched as the warder caught a low-hanging yardarm and hauled himself up into the ship’s rigging. The little librarian felt his mount’s muscles bunch suspiciously, then release. By the time he turned around, Wick saw that they’d run out of dock. The horse went airborne for just a moment, then dropped toward the water.
Wick kicked free of the horse on the way down, thinking desperately of the grandmagister’s letter in his pocket. He’d never gotten the chance to return it to the warder, and now it was going to get all wet. Then the little librarian dropped into the harbor and the ocean closed over his head.
A fleeting moment of panic filled Wick before he remembered that he did know how to swim, though it wasn’t a skill he was often called upon to use as a librarian, nor did he often care to indulge in such behavior. He kicked upward, led by the lantern lights pooling on the choppy surface.
He hacked and coughed for a moment, feeling water tickle his ears, but he looked for the Boneblights immediately. Both creatures had chosen to speed after the warder. One of them darted through the ship’s rigging after the warder while the other Boneblight flew around the ship to head him off.
Wick treaded water and watched as the warder leaped through the first ship’s rigging then into the next, graceful as an acrobat. From the second ship, the warder leaped into a third, crawling toward the crow’s-nest. The ship he’d indicated that he had passage on was the very next one, and all but twenty feet of the caravel had moved forward past the ship next to it.
The first Boneblight overtook the warder at the third- ship’s crow’s-nest. Anticipating an easy victory, the Boneblight flapped its wings and raced straight at the warder. Only the man wasn’t there when the foul creature arrived. The warder grabbed the crow’s-nest mast with one hand and spun around, drawing his sword with his free hand.
As the Boneblight passed through the area where he had been, the warder struck off the creature’s head with the sword. With what seemed still a part of the same motion, the warder sheathed his sword again and jumped out toward the departing vessel, arcing his body and shoving both arms in front of him as he flew forward and started to fall at the same time.
Wick’s breath hung in his throat, and for a short time he felt certain the warder had leaped to his doom, or at the very least a cold swim in the sea. But the warder had timed his leap precisely, dropping inside the aft sail as it stretched out full-bellied from the wind. The warder slid down the canvas, stretching out right before sliding down toward the stern castle deck so that he landed on his feet.
Without breaking stride, the warder grabbed one of the fancy multicolored lanterns from the ship’s railing. He turned to face the last Boneblight, raising the lantern’s hurricane glass that protected the flame inside. When the Boneblight dove at him, the warder turned the flame up high and held it up before him.
When the flame touched the Boneblight, it caught fire at once. Wick remembered then that the warder had drenched one of the Boneblights earlier. Screaming and squalling, wings burning quickly, the flaming creature fell into the harbor. It continued to burn for a short time even after the dark water closed over it.
The warder turned from the last of his attackers and glanced into the harbor after Wick. The little librarian didn’t know for sure, but he thought a broad, generous smile curved the man’s mouth as he waved farewell. The ship’s crew closed in on him.
He’s insane! Wick thought. That’s the only explanation there can be! The darkness of the fogbound shore quickly obscured his view of the warder and the ship, so the little librarian didn’t know if the crew welcomed their drop-in guest or took him into custody.
Hobnailed boots thundered across the docks, coming toward Wick at a hurried pace. Crewmen aboard the nearby ship shone lanterns on the little librarian, shouting, “There he is!”
Abruptly, the bright glow of a lummin juice lantern broke over the end of the dock. Wick squinted in pain and held up one dripping hand to shield his eyes against the light. The water muddied in color around him as it reflected the light.
“Are ye all right, dweller?” The dwarven sailor peered down at Wick with one eye screwed up tight. He held a short-hafted, double-bitted axe in one hand.
“Yes,” Wick replied. “But I’m afraid I lost Dhaobin’s horse. It was just here.” He looked around the water in vexation. He had thought the animal could surely swim. Unless one of the monsters that inhabit the Blood-Soaked Sea slithered up and wolfed him down! The thought had Wick treading water much more quickly, gazing around in consternation for a quick way out of the water.
“That horse ye rode into these waters so brave-like,” the dwarf said, “has already seen himself fit to get to shore.”
Following the man’s pointing arm, Wick saw the horse clambering up from the shallows at the other end of the dock, the warder in tow with the letter in hand held high above the surf. Suddenly, he felt foolish in the water.
“That was a mighty brave thing ye did,” the dwarf said, “a-rescuin’ that feller what was in so much trouble.”
“I—” Wick began.
“Never have seen anything like it.” The dwarf glanced over his shoulder at the crowd that had filled the end of the dock. “Well, I’ll be hornswaggled! All ye men are here, and ain’t a-one of ye got a pole between ye to help this brave man from them cold waters.”
“It’s all right,” Wick said. “I’ll just swim to shore.”
“It ain’t fittin’!” the dwarf roared loudly. “The halfer done took on a warrior’s responsibilities by a-killin’ them Boneblights! Surely he ain’t a-gonna have to save himself, too!” A barge pole was quickly passed up to the dwarf. He shoved the end of it down to Wick. “Now ye just grab onto that and we’ll have ye outta them waters in a trice.”
Teeth chattering from the cold water, Wick gladly reached for the pole. Even as his hand closed on the pole, the little librarian saw another dwarf bring out a cudgel. Before Wick could move, the dwarf rapped him on the head and everything went black.
4
Shanghaied!
Ooooh!” Wick groaned in pain. The effort only intensified the harsh, throbbing agony trapped within his skull. He started to open his eyes, but bright light lanced into them and he quickly thought better of that. Memory of the race along Yondering Docks haunted him, but he knew that had to be a dream inspired by too much wine and his recent reading selections from Hralbomm’s Wing.
Still, he stretched out a tentative hand. Bedding covered him. There, he told himself almost happily. See? Your brains aren’t leaking out of your poor, bashed skull! You’re in your room in the Library. Erkim is probably over in his bed wearing that ridiculous night mask. However, Erkim’s customary snoring and sleep-talk was missing. So was the weight of the book on Wick’s chest that he normally went to sleep with. It’s nothing to be alarmed about. He even tried to believe that, but the whispering doubt remained in his mind.
He extended his hand out further and found the edge of the bed. Still lying on his back, he reached out the other side of the bed. Odd, he thought. The bed is much narrower than I remember. And it’s a trifle harder as well.
Suddenly, as he continued to waken, the rise and fall that he felt throughout his body was more noticeable. At first he’d thought the sensation had been created by consuming too much razalistynberry wine or one of the occasional sick headaches he got from reading for too long in one position.
“Get up outta bed, ya goldbricker!” a shrill, arthritic voice screeched. “Get up outta bed! Ye’re wasting daylight, ye no-good, bilge-blasted lay-about!” Vile, graphic curses followed the screeched orders.
The language was so graphically foul that Wick could not believe it. He’d only occasionally found such obscenities in books he’d catalogued over the years at the Vault. He’d never met anyone that cursed with such intensity.
Despite the harsh glare, Wick opened his eyes. The details of the room didn’t immediately register. The cramped space was far smaller than his room at the Librar
y. And he was lying swaddled in a gently swinging hammock, not in his bed.
A sudden explosion of red, yellow, blue, and green feathers beat at the air at the foot of the hammock. The creature streaked straight at the little librarian. The frantic motion of its wings made the creature look incredibly huge. “Get up outta bed or I’ll yank ye up by yer hair meself!” Long claws flashed toward Wick’s face.
“Yaaahhhh!” Terrified, the little librarian twisted away from the dreadful creature. The hammock writhed beneath him and overturned, dumping him to the hardwood floor with a loud splat. The wind left his lungs and dizziness swam sickeningly through his head.
“Get up! Get up!”
Wings beat the air only inches above Wick. He wrapped his arms over his head protectively. His fingers found the large knot behind his left ear. In disbelief, he cupped the protruding swelling, thinking it was still the size of a hen’s egg. His own touch pained him. It wasn’t a dream! The cold realization sent sheets of panic cascading through him. Where am I? He forced his eyes open again and stared at the hardwood floor before him.
The oak planks had been sanded smooth in past years and had fit tightly. Long seasons of hard usage and the usual toll the sea had on things had left scars and a little warping that needed a patient hand to make right again. Evidently, no one had cared enough to straighten those things out. The brine smell of the sea filled Wick’s nostrils as he struggled to fill his lungs again. No! This can’t be!
“Lazy goldbricker!” the raucous voice continued screaming. “I’ll have the flesh off yer bones, I will! I’ll be feedin’ ye to them monsters a-lyin’ in our wake if’n I have to pack ye down their gullets a piece at a time meself!”
Cautiously, Wick looked up. He covered his face with one hand and peered through his splayed fingers.
The horned rhowdor stood little more than a foot tall, but the twin horns of twisting pastel pink made it appear taller. The wingspread reached nearly three feet and made the bird appear fiercer and larger than it was. The chest and most of the wing were the bright red of low-burning coals, but yellow patches mixed in there as well. The wingtips and tail held a green color so dark it looked blue and black in places. The hatchet face bore chiseled features made up of a heavy, curved beak and a single glowering emerald eye. The other eye was covered by a scarred black leather eyepatch with a skull outline embossed in metal studs. A gold hoop earring depended from one wild, bushy ear tuft. Besides having a fierce appearance, rhowdors were also extremely intelligent.
