The Rover

by Mel Odom

  Then, just as the Purple Cloak turned in their direction to face them, the wine shelving fell over on top of him. Shelves and falling bottles cascaded over the Purple Cloak, crashing against the stone floor and sending the man to the ground under the immense weight.

  “Quickly!” Lago yelled, pulling at Wick’s arm.

  The little librarian followed immediately, streaking for the stairs. He glanced around the wine cellar and saw that the six other dwarves had managed to fend off the two Purple Cloaks remaining and outmaneuver them. All six, led by Volsk, ran for the stairway.

  “Up!” Volsk cried. “Up quickly! Perhaps we can yet escape them!”

  Remembering all the tales of the Purple Cloaks’ superhuman strength and constitution, seeing the man with the knife in his throat starting forward yet again, Wick headed up the stairs. The other dwarves set up a perimeter around the stairway entrance, brandishing their weapons and calling out their battle cries.

  The nearest Purple Cloak stopped less than ten feet away and his hand danced in the air.

  Wick summoned his desperation, set himself, and threw the flaming torch in his hand like a spear. The flames wreathed the torch’s head as it shot across the room like a comet. Then it crashed into the Purple Cloak’s face. The sticky oil smeared the human’s face with flaming patches, making it look like his beard and hair had suddenly caught fire.

  The Purple Cloak shrieked in mortal agony and beat at his face with his hands.

  Standing paralyzed with horror at the foot of the stairway, Wick gazed at what his unthinking and quick action had wrought. He’d never dealt someone such a grievous injury, and the realization that he’d done it now—coupled with the stench of burning hair and perhaps flesh as well—sickened him.

  The six younger dwarves thundered up the stairs, calling for Lago and Wick to follow after them. Even with their superior numbers, the dwarven thieves were evidently convinced that they weren’t enough to take on the Purple Cloaks.

  “Come on!” Lago yelled, tugging at Wick’s arm.

  The little librarian followed the old dwarf, suddenly aware that the stairway passage was only wide enough for one of them at a time to run up. Lago went more slowly than Wick would have been able to. Still, the old dwarf fought valiantly to drag Wick after him as if he were saving the younger man instead of slowing him.

  The howls of the burning Purple Cloak echoed up the staircase.

  For the first time, Wick realized that the Purple Cloaks had been using their magic against the dwarven thieves. Magic isn’t supposed to work in Hanged Elf’s Point, the little librarian remembered. That line of reasoning left only two possibilities. Possibly, Minniger had been wrong and magic actually could be used inside the city. Or we’re not in Hanged Elf’s Point anymore. That scared Wick nearly out of his wits. It wasn’t unheard of in the texts that he’d read for wizards to do all kinds of things with twisting and warping time and space. Perhaps they were no longer even near Hanged Elf’s Point or on the Shattered Coast. How would he get home then?

  The books in his backpack slapped against his back as Wick ran after Lago. The little librarian peered up anxiously, hoping to see around the twisting staircase to make sure the doorway still let out into the crypt. He couldn’t see anything beyond the dwarves fleeing ahead of him. Then an enraged bellow drew his attention back down the stairs.

  A sword flashed in the stairwell below, held by at least one Purple Cloak pursuing them.

  “Hurry!” Wick yelled, wishing Lago was more fleet of foot. The little librarian resisted the impulse to push the old dwarf.

  Then a blast of cold air swooped down over Wick, stirring the flames of Lago’s torch overhead. Three more hard driving pushes against the stairs and the little librarian spotted the door opening into the crypt. The other dwarven thieves cleared the doorway in a rush.

  Lago missed a step and fell heavily against the side of the stairway. For a moment, the old dwarf couldn’t find his balance. He flailed his torch and his free arm, on the verge of falling back.

  Desperately, Wick pushed his palms out and caught the old dwarf on the back, then shoved him forward. Lago fell forward, toppling into the crypt. Unfortunately, the little librarian’s effort left him insecure in his own balance and footing. Before Wick could recover, the sword-wielding Purple Cloak behind him grabbed the tails of his traveling cloak.

  “Yaaaaahhhhh!” Wick screamed as he scrambled to reach the next step. His boots slipped on the stairs and he fell, bruising both knees. The man behind the little librarian tightened his grip, pulling him in like a fisherman trying to take a fish.

  A shadow, limned by Lago’s torch behind it in the crypt, suddenly filled the stairwell in front of Wick as the little librarian fought for his life against the Purple Cloak. I’m going to die! He was certain at any moment that the Purple Cloak’s sword was going to cleave his skull.

  “Get down, little artist!” Brant commanded gruffly. The master thief paused in graceful haste on the stair step in front of Wick, then lashed out with a boot. The kick must have caught the Purple Cloak full in the face, judging from the meaty smack.

  For a moment, Wick thought the Purple Cloak was going to drag him back down the stairs. He stuck his hands straight out and dug his fingers into the cracks between the stones. As carefully as they’d been put together, there wasn’t much space between the stones. His fingers started slipping at once, and he didn’t have the breath left in him to yell.

  Brant bent forward and grabbed Wick’s traveling cloak. The master thief slipped on one step, but set himself by the time he hit the next. Brant pulled hard, and Wick’s traveling cloak tore.

  “Come on!” Brant yelled, pulling Wick up the stairs. Three long-legged steps later, the little librarian passed through the door with the master thief.

  Wick’s feet got tangled with Brant’s and they both went down. Heart in the back of his throat, he glanced back over his shoulder at the opening in the crypt wall. The Purple Cloak charged up the steps, his lower face masked by blood and his sword in his fist. Even as he came level with Wick, the Purple Cloak brought his sword down, hacking at the little librarian’s legs. Turning quickly, Brant brought his own blade up and expertly turned the Purple Cloak’s cut.

  The clang of metal filled the crypt, then the multicolored flash blinded Wick once again. When the little librarian’s vision cleared, he saw that the slate door had reformed and the Keldian mosaic gems lay glistening on the floor.

  Incredibly, the Purple Cloak’s arm and sword extended through the slate, trapped in the slate’s stony grip.

  Wick stood on trembling legs, aided by the master thief. He stared at the frozen tableau of the man’s arm caught in the slate. In the next instant, the sword fell from the Purple Cloak’s nerveless fingers and the arm relaxed.

  “What happened to him?” Lago asked quietly. “Is he trapped on the other side of that magical door, or is it only his arm hanging there?”

  Wick didn’t want to know the answer to the question, but his mind couldn’t help considering the possibilities.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Brant said. “For all we know, those weren’t the only Purple Cloaks in the area. Grab those gems!”

  The dwarves scrambled to follow his order.

  Wick watched helplessly as gems skidded across the crypt floor. The dwarves and Hamual and Karick scrambled after them, stuffing their pockets with the ones they picked up.

  “Goblin patrol,” Sonne called from the doorway. She held her crossbow at the ready, peering around the black silk sheet. “Brant, they’re coming this way.”

  The master thief crossed to the doorway. “After the confrontation Hamual and Karick had with them, I’m not surprised.” He paused, then glanced at Lago. “Put out that torch.”

  Lago reached under his traveling cloak and brought out a thick towel. He wrapped the torch head quickly, extinguishing the flames and plunging the crypt into inky darkness.

  “The only chance we’ve got,” Brant said in the
shadows, “are the horses outside. The goblinkin will spot them and maybe think about it. The best chance we’ll have is if we can spook their horses and buy ourselves a little time.”

  “I knew this halfer would bring us ill luck,” Cobner snarled. “Better you should have left him wherever those Purple Cloaks were left on the other side of that wizard’s gate.”

  “Quiet, Cobner,” Brant commanded. He set up on the other side of the crypt doorway opposite Sonne. “Ready.” He lifted the edge of the black silk sheet and peered through. “There’s only six of them. We have a chance.” He let out his breath. “Set.”

  No, Wick thought feebly. I’m not ready and I’m not set! I don’t want to—

  “Go!” Brant threw the silk sheet to one side and charged out into the cemetery. Sonne followed him through the door next, trailed only a half step by Cobner. Tyrnen and Zalnar plunged through the doorway next.

  Wick got caught up in the general melee that hurtled pell-mell through the crypt door.

  Outside, Brant rushed the goblinkin’s horses while screaming at the top of his lungs and waving his arms. The horses shied, some of them rearing, all of them moving back hurriedly, their eyes rolling white. Sonne lifted her crossbow to her shoulder and stood her ground. One of the goblins mastered his horse quicker than the others and lifted his mace. The goblin urged his horse forward, intending to cave in the back of Brant’s skull. Sonne fired deliberately, putting the short quarrel through the goblin’s head. He fell from his horse, one foot caught in the stirrup. The frightened horse charged blindly through the graveyard, dragging the dead goblin at its side.

  Another goblin chopped at Brant with a morning star. Quick as lightning, the master thief whirled, using both hands to block the treacherous blow before it landed. “Get to the horses!” Brant yelled. He danced clear of the goblin and grabbed the bridle of another horse, yanking it into the horse behind him.

  Wick didn’t hesitate. He’d be no good fighting goblins; he wasn’t a warrior. He swept the graveyard with his eyes, spotting the thieves’ horses tethered beneath a dead tree beside a broken monument depicting a rearing unicorn. The little librarian ran hard as he could, feeling pain shooting through both his bruised knees. Surprisingly, he stayed even with the longer-legged dwarves.

  “More riders!” one of the twins warned.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Wick spotted the torches carried by more arriving goblinkin troops. Brant remained a fighting whirlwind amid the first goblins, using the horses’ fear and the twisting night shadows thrown by their torches against them. The master thief’s sword swept out suddenly, thrusting through an opponent’s midriff. When he withdrew the blade, the goblinkin fell screaming from the saddle. Brant yelled again, sweeping his traveling cloak to scare the horses yet again.

  Some of the goblinkin reinforcements carried crossbows. Short, deadly quarrels filled the air around the running dwarves. Thankfully, the overhanging branches of the dead tree deflected some of the missiles and none of them hit the dwarven and human thieves running for the horses.

  Cobner took a stand as the goblinkin rode toward them. The surly dwarf spun his battle-axe in his hands expertly, yelling in battle fury. “I’m Cobner, fiercest dwarf of Swift River Hollow, and I stand before you as the last warrior of my clan, my kin, and my home! Come at me and die, you ugly toadfaces! My axe is thirsty!”

  The dwarf ran forward and thrust the haft of his axe through the legs of the lead horse, bracing it against the ground. Cobner set himself, then yelled in triumph as the horse tripped over the axe. The goblin rider yelled in fear as he sailed from his mount’s saddle.

  Cobner turned again, his grim face pulled tight in a fighting smile, the first sign of good humor Wick had seen the big dwarf show. Cobner drew his axe back and drove it into the chest of the next rider, knocking the goblin from horseback in a tumble of flailing arms and legs.

  “Come on, then!” Cobner yelled to the other goblins. “Have at you then and let’s see whose steel bites more deeply!”

  Despite the panic filling him, Wick couldn’t help pull up short for just an instant and watch the dwarf’s lone stand against the goblinkin. The little librarian was convinced that he was about to see Cobner die in the next moment. But even as the goblinkin turned on the dwarf, bringing their arms to bear, Cobner ran at them again, waving his arms and screaming lustily, causing their horses to bolt.

  Low-hanging branches knocked two of the goblinkin from their saddles, leaving the riderless horses free to run.

  Cobner laughed uproariously, gleefully cursing the confused goblinkin.

  Wick’s mind worked furiously despite the fear that vibrated within him, searching for words that could do the brave dwarf’s efforts justice. Then the little librarian saw the first goblin Cobner had unhorsed stagger to his feet. The goblin was behind the dwarf, out of Cobner’s sight, as he took a crossbow from his fallen mount’s saddle before it could get its feet under it once more.

  Cold fear drained through Wick as he watched the dwarf lift the crossbow to shoulder. Before the little librarian knew what he was doing, he was running, covering the ground swiftly as he raced for Cobner. No! He couldn’t allow the brave dwarven thief to be killed so out-of-hand by such a cowardly attack. He didn’t run for the goblin, knowing the foul creature would probably only turn and put the quarrel between his eyes. Instead, he ran for Cobner.

  “Look out, Cobner!” Wick bellowed.

  Cobner turned, the battle-axe held in both hands before him, but the move wasn’t going to be in time and Wick knew the dwarf didn’t see the goblin taking aim at him.

  The little librarian threw himself forward, flying through the air, intending to knock Cobner back. However, Wick hadn’t planned on how solidly the dwarf stood his ground. The little librarian smacked into Cobner’s chainmail and stopped as though he’d run headlong into a stone wall.

  Wick felt the breath leave his lungs at the impact and was thinking to himself that the action had surely been the stupidest thing he’d ever done—then a sharp pain took him in the lower back. I’ve been shot! I’m going to die! The impact knocked him against Cobner again, rebounding him from the big dwarf’s chest.

  19

  Broken Forge Mountains

  Halfer!” Cobner’s eyes rounded in surprise, then he caught Wick in one beefy hand.”Has he gone and killed you, then?”

  A cold flash flared through the little librarian. He was afraid to reply, but he knew there could be no other answer. He was in more pain than he’d been in his entire life. “I think so, Cobner.”

  Cobner threw the long-hafted battle-axe with one hand and from the abrupt end of the dying scream from behind Wick, he had no doubt that the weapon’s unconventional attack had nevertheless taken down the goblin.

  “And you gave your life to save me?” Cobner shook his broad head in disbelief. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d have a brave bone in your whole body, halfer.”

  Wick felt on the verge of passing out, sickness twisting his stomach. “I didn’t mean to,” he gasped. “I thought I could knock you out of the way.”

  “Nobody knocks ol’ Cobner about so easily, halfer.” Tears filled the big dwarf’s pale eyes as he wrapped his strong arms around Wick. “That foul goblin couldn’t have hurt me. You should have known that. I’ve been taking care of myself for a lot more years than you’ve been around.”

  “The goblin had you,” Wick gasped. Please don’t let me throw up through my dying speech! In all the great death scenes he’d read about heroes in the books in Hralbomm’s Wing, he’d never read about one who had thrown up as his last dying expression. “Everything is going black, Cobner.” The little librarian hovered on the edge of passing out.

  “I got you, little man,” Cobner promised as gently as his great, booming voice would allow. “I ain’t going to let you go into that big night all alone. I’ll stay with you till the end.”

  Thudding hoofbeats sounded behind Wick as he let the big dwarf hold him. The little librari
an’s knees lacked the strength to hold him. “You need to go, Cobner. Get away.”

  “I can’t do it, little man,” Cobner said sorrowfully. “I’ll not leave any warrior brave enough to lay down his life for another.”

  “I’m no warrior,” Wick said, gritting his teeth against the pain.

  “You’re warrior enough for the likes of me,” Cobner stated grimly. “I’ll not forget what you’ve done for me.”

  “Cobner,” Brant called.

  Weakly, Wick craned his head and stared at the master thief sitting astride his horse only a few feet away.

  “Saddle up,” Brant ordered. “We’ve beaten the goblinkin back for the moment, but they’ll be back in even greater numbers.”

  Wick couldn’t believe it. Here he lay, shot and dying, and Brant wasn’t even going to give him time to die properly. Or at least die not throwing up!

  “I can’t leave Wick,” Cobner said, holding Wick gently. “He done give his life to save me, and the goblins killed him.”

  “Killed him?” Brant stood up in his stirrups. “He’s been shot, Cobner, but I’ve never heard of a man who died from being shot in the, uh, posterior.”

  Posterior? Still in great pain, but now recognizing that the pain was coming lower than he’d thought, too low, surely, to be shot in the heart, Wick looked over his shoulder. Cobner looked behind the little librarian as well.

  The quarrel, fletched in black and white feathers, did in fact stand out from Wick’s … posterior.

  “Why,” Cobner shouted happily, “you aren’t going to die after all, halfer!” He reached down and took hold of the offending quarrel. “And lucky for you, I know the goblinkin here don’t use poisoned broad-bladed quarrels in their crossbows. This won’t take but just an instant to have out of there.”

  “No!” Wick shouted. Now that he knew he was going to live, he didn’t want to hurt anymore.