by Mel Odom
Brant took a deep breath. “You don’t even know me, little artist.”
“No,” Wick admitted.
The master thief glanced around the terrain, sweeping the sky as another black streamer puffed from the mountain ahead. “My father was a baron, and the land he controlled was a small bit of farmland tucked into the Sweetgrass Valley.”
“I’ve not heard of it,” Wick said.
“I’m not surprised. It had been in my family’s holdings for generations. Then Malodoc Tramm rose up from other lands and sought to build himself an empire. He took on humans, elves, dwarves, and goblins, anyone who didn’t mind slitting a throat for a chance at a few silver coins. The only way he stayed in command of them was by being more sly and vicious than anyone among their number.”
As the master thief spoke, Wick heard the pain in Brant’s voice. As a librarian, Wick had been trained to listen to others, to know the emotions that colored the experiences they related even if they didn’t want to part with them.
“Tramm and his men came to Sweetgrass Valley thirty years ago,” Brant said. “I was hardly more than a boy. My father managed to get me away to safety by having Cobner look after me.”
“Cobner?”
Brant nodded. “Cobner was one of my father’s oldest friends.” He grinned sadly. “I don’t know if Cobner even knows that my father considered him as such. All of you have much longer lives than humans. For most of you, friendship with a human is probably much like becoming used to a guttering candle flame.”
The master’s thief’s comparison hurt Wick. The little librarian looked back to his own friendship with Grandmagister Ludaan, remembering the way the Grandmagister had seemed to age from a young man to an old bent one in just a handful of years. Did I take him for granted? He remembered when he’d learned that Grandmagister Ludaan had passed away. It hadn’t seemed like weeks since they’d talked. “My teacher was human.”
“I thought as much,” Brant said.
Wick looked up at the master thief.
“See?” Brant said gently. “Even your look tells me much at this moment.”
“I can’t speak to you of this matter. I’m sorry.”
Brant laughed softly. “Fret not, little artist. I believe I have most of your secret figured out, but I won’t be telling anyone of it. Although, I must admit, that accepting it means having to believe the Cataclysm was also real.”
“It was,” Wick said.
“So that means that a dragon will be waiting on us when we find those mines.”
“Unless something has happened to it,” Wick replied, “then yes, Shengharck will be there. What happened to your da and ma?”
Brant regarded the little librarian with his black eyes. “Why are you interested?”
“Because that event seems to have shaped you the most.”
Brant walked around a boulder. “Tramm had my father and mother executed.” He took a deep breath and looked away. “I’d fled with Cobner during the night, determined somehow to get back to my father and mother and help them.” He shook his head. “I didn’t know what I was going to do. Only that I had to do something. Cobner caught me before I reached the town. Cobner held his hand over my mouth, almost so tightly that I couldn’t breathe, and together we watched as the headsman’s axe fell. Then fell again.”
“I’m sorry,” Wick whispered hoarsely as the master thief’s words faded away.
“Twelve long years later,” Brant went on after a moment, “I returned to Sweetgrass Valley. I was a grown man then, and Cobner had taught me everything he could about fighting. For a time, we’d earned our keep as mercenaries in other people’s wars. Young as I was, confident in the cruel seasoning I’d had from surviving countless horrors on battlefields, I was convinced that I could kill Malodoc Tramm.”
“Did you?” Wick stared at the master thief’s scarred face, trying to imagine the things that the man had seen. It was a miracle that he’d lived through such engagements.
Brant shook his head. “Tramm had built the empire that he’d sought. I stayed in the city that Tramm had chosen as his crown jewel for six months, till my gold ran out. Then I started to live by my wits. That’s how I became a thief. Of course, I was already somewhat accomplished at it. You can’t be a mercenary without picking up some skills at a craft like that: you draw a monthly wage, but you take what you can from your enemies and the other mercenaries as well. I discovered I had a natural proclivity for stealing.”
“Then why didn’t you stay?” Wick asked.
“Because,” Brant answered in a voice that faltered for the first time since Wick had met the man, “because I soon felt that I was no better than Malodoc Tramm.” He sighed. “I stole from everyone in that city that I could, telling myself that I deserved what I took, that I was better than they were. They were living in peace with the man who had murdered my father and mother, after all. Then one day I had to leave.”
“Because you could no longer believe the lie?” Wick asked.
Brant shook his head and smiled. “No. Because my success as a thief hadn’t escaped notice. Cobner and I were very nearly caught taking tribute from Malodoc Tramm’s money collectors. The description of us, although no one knew for sure who were really were, was enough to identify us too well for us to maintain any kind of anonymity. I’d gone there quietly as the vengeful hero, and I left as a notorious outlaw one step ahead of Tramm’s soldiers.” He laughed bitterly. “So now you know my secret, little artist. What do you think about it?”
“You did what you could,” Wick said, a new respect in him for the master thief.
“And your secret?” Brant asked. “Are you so willing to part with it?”
Wick looked down at his feet as he walked along, trailing distantly behind the rest of the group. “I can’t.” He felt horrible that he couldn’t tell Brant after the man had shared his own story.
“So which is it, little artist?” Brant asked.
“What?”
“Is the Vault filled with incredible treasures as some claim, or is it something else?”
Wick gave his answer careful thought. “I suppose that depends,” the little librarian stated cautiously, “on what your perception of what you found there was. If such a place exists.”
Brant laughed, and this time there was good humor in the sound. “Touché, little artist.”
Wick knelt by the quickly flowing little stream that splashed down the mountainside only a short distance further on. His feet, legs, and back ached from riding and walking. He filled his waterskin from the stream as his horse drank its fill.
Above them, the sun had begun its descent, shining onto the side of the Broken Forge Mountains that they were on.
Lago passed out another hunk of bread and they ate from the razalistynberry brambles growing wild around the stream. Bright orange and yellow butterflies flitted from the succulent berries as well, filling the air with vibrant confetti.
Once his waterskin was tied back onto his horse’s saddle, Wick took out his journal and a sharp quill. With an agile mind, he quickly wrote out notes that he planned to expand on later. Then he sketched a brief picture of Cobner, who had climbed up the mountainside more than a hundred feet to act as their lookout.
A few minutes later, after the horses had a breather, Brant whistled, giving the signal to get ready to ride on. Cobner scrambled down the mountainside, scattering rocks and loose soil in his path.
“The Purple Cloaks are still back there,” the big dwarf told Brant when he reached them. “Closer than they were before, but they’re resting their horses, too.”
Brant pulled up into his saddle. “They don’t show any signs of turning back?”
“No.” Cobner stepped into the stirrup and pulled himself up as well.
“The horses aren’t going to hold up,” Sonne said. “We’ve been pushing them hard for a day and a half now.”
“I know,” Brant replied, striking out into the lead. “We don’t have a choice.”
“I don�
�t like to see them treated this way,” Sonne objected. She frowned in displeasure and irritation.
“I know.” Brant continued moving resolutely across the foothills.
Arms trembling with effort, Wick hauled himself into the saddle. He followed Brant and Cobner through the scrub brush. The little librarian really doubted he could outlast his horse. Surely he would falter before it did. He looked around at his companions, recognizing how fatigued and worn out they all were as well.
The thunder rolled across the blue sky again, and this time Wick saw the distinctive puff of smoke that drifted on the wind. The volcano—and the entrances to the Iron Hammer Peaks dwarven clan mines—couldn’t be more than another hour’s ride off. Somewhat heartened, he searched in vain for a more comfortable position.
Hamual guided his horse over to join Wick. “Do you think the dragon—Shengharck—still lives within the mountain?” the young warrior asked.
“I wouldn’t know,” Wick answered truthfully.
“But if the stories are true,” Hamual pressed.
Wick saw the excitement gleaming in his young friend’s eyes despite the tiredness. “If the stories are true,” the little librarian said, “about dragons in general and Shengharck in particular, then it’s possible.”
“Wouldn’t that be something? To take a great dragon’s treasure?”
Wick thought about it only a moment, but it was enough to make his stomach nauseous. The prospect definitely didn’t have the allure for him that it did for the young human. “It’s not been done very often.”
“You’re going to hear more about that kind of thing in lies than for real,” Lago commented. “You don’t just go about stealing a dragon’s treasure after it has spent hundreds and mayhap thousands of years accumulating its hoard.”
“Yes,” Hamual said, “but if we could, our reputations as thieves would spread everywhere. Bards would sing about us in songs.”
“Being well known as a thief,” Wick pointed out, “isn’t exactly a good idea.”
“Oh.” Hamual’s face turned red.
Lago, Baldarn, and Sonne laughed, but the young human joined them.
Wick marveled at his companions’ ability to laugh at a time when they seemed up against such desperate measures. Still, his own sense of humor brought a quick smile to his lips. Hamual clapped the little librarian on the back, which unfortunately caused Wick’s wound to ache again, necessitating a move to find comfort again, and made them all laugh.
Amid the nervous laughter, Wick wasn’t sure if the first scream he heard was a scream at all. When the scream was repeated, however, there was no doubt.
21
The Woman in the Web
That’s a woman!” Sonne pulled her horse up short, causing the tired animal to stumble on the uneven mountainside. Rocks skipped from the horse’s hooves over the ledge hanging over the Forest of Fangs and Shadows below.
The scream rang out again, more strident this time, and fear mixed evenly with anger.
“Brant,” Sonne called out.
“I heard it.” The master thief pulled his horse to a stop at the head of the line. Cobner sat astride his own horse next to Brant.
“It could be a trick,” Baldarn said.
Wick gripped the reins of his own horse and glanced fearfully at the forest below the ledge. Even with the echoing effect created by the mountainside to his left, he was certain the screams came from within the dark mass of trees below. It could be a trick, the little librarian thought. But the Purple Cloaks are behind us. And why scream out a warning?
The woman’s scream pierced the air again, sounding more desperate.
Brant surveyed the forest from the ledge. His horse pranced nervously.
“It’s not our problem,” Cobner said gruffly. The big dwarf held his fierce battle-axe across his saddle pommel.
“We’re not leaving someone in that kind of trouble,” Sonne declared. Without another word, the young girl cut her horse around to the left and raced along the ridge for a moment. She disappeared with alarming abruptness.
“Sonne!” the little librarian called fearfully, just knowing that she and her horse had accidentally plunged over the ledge to their doom.
Brant pulled his horse’s head around and charged after the young girl. Cobner cursed fiercely, but took out in quick pursuit as well. In short order, the other thieves followed.
Am I the only one who remembers that we’re being chased by the Purple Cloaks? Wick wondered. But he didn’t want to stay on the mountainside by himself, either. And surely anyone who sounded that scared needed help. The little librarian urged his horse into motion, racing in the same direction as the others. By the time he got moving, the thieves had vanished. For a moment, he thought he was going to drop over the ledge, then he spotted the broken defile that led back down into the forest. He clung to the saddle pommel, letting the horse pick its own way down.
At the bottom of the defile, Wick pulled the reins around and guided the horse in the direction of the moving brush left in the wake of the other steeds. The scream rang out again, more hoarse this time.
The little librarian hung onto the saddle grimly, quickly catching up to the mounted thieves. The afternoon sunlight barely broke through the thick copse of trees and brush, leaving long, dark shadows that lay over everything.
Sonne was in the lead. Wick barely glimpsed her through the trees. In the next instant, her horse reared, nearly tossing her from the saddle. Then a fat, hairy shape seemed to materialize in the space between the trees in front of her.
That’s a spider! Wick recognized the familiar shape even at the same time that his brain was telling him the creature was far larger than he’d ever seen.
The spider measured at least eight feet long from forefoot to hind foot, and the fat, heavy body took up at least half of that. The spider clambered across a fifty-foot web, jarring the silken strands with every move. The creature moved rapidly, closing in on Sonne and her horse.
Despite the surprise evident on her face, the young girl retained her wits. She brought up her crossbow and fired as soon as she had the weapon level. The quarrel leapt from the weapon just as the spider jumped from the web. The quarrel smacked deeply into the spider’s head, throwing it off balance. It plopped onto the ground before Sonne.
The spider raised on its eight legs, swaying slightly, obviously seriously wounded. Sonne’s horse backed into a tree as she hung the crossbow from her saddle pommel. A fistful of knives appeared in her hands as if by magic.
Brant attacked without warning, coming up on the spider from behind. He lashed out with his sword, cutting the spider across the back. Drawing in on itself, lowering its heavy body to the ground, the spider balanced itself and leaped at the master thief. Even as the spider cleared the ground, Cobner stood up in his stirrups beside Brant and swung the battle-axe with both hands. The big blade caught the huge arachnid in the midsection and cut it in half. Both halves landed in quivering piles in the brush.
“Help me!” a hoarse voice shouted from above.
Hypnotized and numbed by the horror of how quickly the savage arachnid had moved, Wick glanced up the web. Thirty feet above the forest floor, a woman hung amid the strands, securely tied in place by webbing. Only her dark hair and violet eyes remained free of webbing.
“There!” Lago cried, pointing.
Brant dropped from his horse and tossed the reins to Cobner. The master thief carried his sword naked in his fist. “Keep a sharp watch. The stories I’ve heard about the spiders in the Forest of Fangs and Shadows suggest that those things don’t often lair alone.”
Wick shuddered, surprising himself when he drew the knife at his belt. He felt the warm steel in his hand. He’d drawn a knife before on One-Eyed Peggie, but it had never been with the intention of fighting something. Then it had been to make the Blood-Soaked Sea pirates trust him. And he had used the knife to cut grappling lines thrown by the goblin slaver party. He didn’t want to fight a giant spider now, but he
knew he would defend himself. His horse shifted beneath him, and his wound throbbed, reminding him that he’d also thrown himself at Cobner in an effort to save the big dwarf only last night. The little librarian couldn’t believe the changes that had taken place within him in the past weeks. But there had been so much that he’d seen, and he’d learned to hate the feeling of helplessness that had plagued those past weeks.
Brant grabbed hold of the spider web and attempted to crawl up. But the web trembled, bouncing the woman above, and the strand that the master thief had stepped on snapped. He gazed up at the woman. “I’m too heavy.”
Sonne vaulted from her horse and tied the reins around a nearby branch. She tried to climb the web as well, but even her smaller weight caused the web strand to break.
“The spider must have carried her up there,” Lago said. “Then bound her so that her weight wouldn’t break the web. They must not usually trap something as big as a person.”
“No,” Brant agreed. “But the stories I listened to suggested that spiders in this forest don’t stop at taking people if they’re given the chance. Their poison causes paralysis, and they eat their prey alive.”
Wick shuddered, vividly imagining what it must feel like to be trapped on a spider’s web while one of those great creatures prepared for a meal later on.
“The web is suspended between these two trees,” Cobner suggested. “We could chop down the trees.”
“By the time we did that,” Brant pointed out, “the Purple Cloaks would catch up with us.”
“The woman could also be hurt,” Sonne told them.
Wick look up at the trapped woman. She’s not trying to persuade them, he realized in wonderment. How can she lie there so quietly, waiting for them to decide her fate without saying anything to win them over? Most people he knew—then he thought of Hallekk and many of the other pirates aboard One-Eyed Peggie—some of the people he knew, he amended silently, would have been yelling their heads off at that point. They would have demanded help or pleaded for it—or both.
