Lowering his arms even as the foiled archer reloaded, Garrich sniped, “A sledgehammer would be more effective."
"I need suggestions, not scorn!” retorted Ayron.
"You're only grouchy cos you traded your lute for supplies.” At the time, blankets for bad tunes seemed a fair swap. “Might've been a trifle hasty ... music could have soothed the savage beast,” punned Garrich. Watching his sarcasm fall flat on Elven ears, he proposed, “Aim for the eye."
Instantly training his second shot on the recommended bull's-eye, Ayron's loosed flight plunged deep into the eye socket of the leapfrogging Rockhound, extinguishing the ruddy glow. Skidding awkwardly to a halt on the slippery gravel slope, shaking its squarish head furiously to try and dislodge the irritating pinprick responsible for blinding it, the Rockhound abruptly went stock-still. Displaying chilling precision, the sightless monstrosity lowered its hooked muzzle Ayron's way, the arrow protruding from its darkened eye socket acting as a pointer to the fresh target. Restarting its downhill charge, the Rockhound zigzagged towards the foiled Elf.
Barking, “I suggest we hightail it!” Garrich was off and dashing downslope even as Ayron shouldered his longbow to scramble after him.
Together the pair careened frantically down the shingly incline, kicking up showers of dust and pebbles, risking broken legs or unleashing a full-blown avalanche. The Rockhound pursued doggedly, crisscrossing the dusty wake of the fleeing fleshies. Goblin and Elf had no way of knowing that Omelchor's creation was not reliant on sight to stalk live prey. Rockhounds were perfectly capable of tracking quarry by homing in solely on body heat, enabling them to prowl by day or night even in the foulest weather. Once on the hunt these untiring pursuers never quit, hounding their predetermined victim to death.
Overtaking the shorter-legged Goblin, Ayron dubiously eyed the turbulent river churning its way along the bottom of the ravine and puffed, “Why are we running this way? It's a dead end."
"Faster than sprinting uphill,” Garrich wheezed back.
Stone grinding against stone grated on the runners’ nerves as the jumping Rockhound bounced ever closer. The watery base of the gorge roiled less than 400 yards below. In six easy bounds the Rockhound was going to smash the Elf to a pulp.
Putting on a burst of speed, Garrich caught Ayron up and shoved the Forester aside. Loosing his footing, the unbalanced Wood Elf rolled frenziedly away downhill, showered in grit. Its attention diverted from the tumbling Janyler onto the upright Goblin, the Rockhound's beaked maw gaped avariciously in anticipation of the kill.
Spotting a flat shelf of rock projecting horizontally out of the slant over the rapids, Garrich leaned to his right and leapt onto the outcrop, flailing his arms like a windmill to stop his momentum from carrying him over the lip into the frothing water. Pivoting, he again offered himself up as bait to the hunting Rockhound, ducking just as the monstrous assemblage of rock pounced. Sailing over the crouching Goblin, the Rockhound belly-flopped into the foaming river with a horrendous splash and predictably sank like a stone.
Breathing hard, Garrich peered over the rim of the ledge. The bubbling whitewater, exuding a plume of hissing red steam, marked the Rockhound's submergence in its watery grave. Calling out for Ayron, he spied the Elf's crumpled form upslope wedged against the boulder that had prevented the gyrating Forester from joining the Rockhound for its unscheduled swim. Dreading the worst, he clambered uphill to where the unmoving Treesinger lay and roughly shook the slim Elf's backpack.
"Cut it out, Losther! Are you trying to wake the dead or something?” Ayron snappily groaned, rolling over and pushing Garrich away.
The Goblin stood back and grinned infectiously. The uppity Janyler was alive and covered in enough stone dust to fill a mine.
More concerned about a broken bow than smashed limbs, Ayron tottered to his feet and ran his long fingers over the amazingly undamaged weapon. He then set about gathering up the arrows that spilled from his quiver during his tumble, admonishing Garrich at the same time. “Shove me like that again and I'll use you for target practice."
Smoothing his wrinkled cloak, Garrich pouted. “No thanks for saving your life and getting rid of our little problem?"
Ayron blinked in confusion, smoothing back his tousled hair. “What happened to our playmate?"
"He took a dunking in the river."
The Elf gazed bewilderingly at the swirling green water.
"Rocks don't float terribly well,” expounded Garrich.
Ayron unexpectedly chortled: a musical, tinkling sound that compelled Garrich to join in with his own merry chuckles. Slapping each other on the back, the odd couple laughed heartily for several long minutes, celebrating their relief at cheating death. In the silence that followed they sat themselves on the pebbled incline and stared into the river, seeking understanding for their close call from the surging mountain water.
Presently, Ayron rose and dusted himself off. “We had better get on, Garrich. The sooner we hook up with this wizard of yours, the better protected we'll be. It's preferable to rely on magic to fight magic than trust to dumb luck again."
"I have a confession to make,” the Goblin said in a small voice. “We aren't going to meet Maldoch. I made that up to get us out of Illebard. Back in the port I had a threatening visit from Omelchor's image, so I decided it was no longer safe to stay there."
"And dragging me overland across Terrath is, you stupid Losther?” bellyached Ayron, grabbing Garrich by the hood of his cloak and hauling him to his feet. Their bonding had ended.
Wriggling free of the Elf's grasp, Garrich bit back. “It's less dangerous than staying put at an address Fate can easily look up. I've been down that road before and it only leads to a broken home. I did us a favor."
"By exposing us to Anarican pirates and rock monsters!"
"Those we survived. A rotten wizard is rather more than a handful for a sword and a bow to handle, which is why we've ended up in Carallord. I'm hoping to bump into Maldoch up here."
"Before or after we wade through four million Dwarfs who dislike Elves and despise Losthers.” Ayron puckered his brow in concentration. “What if Maldoch's no-good brother set you up?'
Baffled, Garrich frowned.
"Consider this. Omelchor appears to you in Illebard and makes his threats. You react true to form and conduct a quick getaway out of town. He gambles that you won't brave taking ship up the west coast due to corsairs patrolling the seaway, leaving the east coast your sole route for a fast trip anywhere. Though how Omelchor could guess we'd work our way so far northward escapes me."
Garrich provided the answer. “For the past year Maldoch has had it in his head that any likely race war will be wrapped up in Dwarf country. Maybe brothers think alike."
Ayron offered no counter-explanation. Garrich and he were both an only child, so who knew how closely siblings thought. The Forester opted for returning to Berhanth.
"We can't go back,” refuted Garrich. “It's full of Dwarfs."
"And Carallord isn't?"
"Dwarfs that I stand a chance of avoiding, Ayron."
"Omelchor must be aware you're here. Continuing north is no longer feasible. We should cut our losses and backtrack to the coast. Maybe we can hitch a ride home with Hombur. Mopping his deck again will be an improvement on rolling down a gorge."
"That won't be necessary,” Garrich said decisively. “Omelchor may be strumming us like a badly tuned lute, but he won't anticipate where we go next. There's a place not too far from here where we can hide out."
"I'm not going to like this, am I?"
"Why muck up our working relationship now."
Garrich's minder trudged upslope after the ascending Goblin, the patchy breeze buffeting their backs while they hiked due east. “The next time I'm given a babysitting job I'll turn it down,” the disgruntled Wood Elf muttered. “Queen or no queen."
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Chapter Thirty Seven
"We are prisoners!” asserted J'tar
d.
"Ridiculous. We're guests,” Maldoch grumpily rebutted.
"Then why are our hands and feet still tied?"
"Consider it protective custody, like the Ogre cage. The Gnomes merely wish to keep us from blindly stumbling about their cavernous home and coming to grief."
"Or prevent me from thumping sense into a stupid wizard putting his slanted spin on things again,” muttered the peeved Troll.
Cave acoustics meant Maldoch heard the mumbled complaint plain as day. Sighing wistfully, lounging upon the unyielding rock floor, he longed to feast his eyes upon daylight again. The only time for a man to wind up belowground is when he is placed six feet into the earth at his own funeral, when he is beyond caring about getting buried.
Bugged by an itch in the small of his back he could not reach to scratch, Maldoch dared not ask J'tard to fumblingly oblige. The giant's mood blackened the deeper the pair descended into Underland an inestimable number of days ago, herded by their Gnome “rescuers". A constant complainer, the wizard decided that Trolls made poor travel companions.
Unfamiliar with the geography of the cave system, access restricted to all Topsiders including nosy spellcasters, Maldoch had only J'tard's information to ascertain where the grotto they guested in might be situated. Upon regaining consciousness he learned from the relieved Troll that the Gnome huntress responsible for capturing them in Darkling Forest mentioned their destination as being Darkin Horr. Hooded, as he earlier gathered J'tard must be, the sole identifiable sound his ears picked up was the irritating drip of moisture plopping onto stone. Talk about water torture!
"At least we're fed regularly,’ the wizard offered, hoping to brighten the Troll's depression. He did not relish spending another day with the outsized gloomy guts.
J'tard grunted sneeringly. “I thank the stars my eyes are covered, so I can't see what they're feeding us. I shudder to think what passes for meat around here."
"The Gnomes did bandage our injuries,” continued Maldoch, rubbing his brained head wrapped up in cloth strips infused with aromatic medicinal herbs.
"Bush doctoring"’ huffed the Troll, disinclined to credit the Underlanders with any kindness. “Tell me again why you can't use magic to free us?"
"I don't wish to antagonize our hosts. The Gnomes must aid the quest willingly. Destiny cannot be bullied, otherwise it degenerates into Fate and that would be bad. Do not fear, J'tard. They won't harm us."
"What makes you so confident?"
"They've had ample time to do so and haven't thus far."
"Maybe they like to build up suspense."
Footsteps softly padding over stone announced the arrival of several of their captors into the cave. “Maldochus. This is indeed an honor,” a gruff male voice acknowledged.
"My fame precedes me,” accepted the wizard, inclining his head after sitting up.
"The honor is yours, not mine. No Topsiders in living memory have entered Underland and lived to breathe our air."
"Stale as it is,” grumbled the Troll.
"Silence, J'tard Sandwalker! Another outburst will warrant the removal of your tongue."
Needing to mollify the blunt and uppity speaker, Maldoch said silkily, “Might I have the pleasure of knowing the name of the power addressing me?"
The wizard pleasantly received more than he requested. “I will go one better. Remove his hood,” came the order.
Greeted by a sudden influx of greenish light, Maldoch waited while his unveiled eyes adjusted to the brightness. Emerald algal growth adorned scattered floor rocks, providing the low-level glow that nonetheless was harsher on the wizard's sight than the glariest desert sun.
Returning maddeningly slowly after long days spent in dark confinement, Maldoch's restored vision picked out a miniscule figure standing before him, arms folded haughtily across its barrel chest. Shorter in stature than a Dwarf, the Gnome was more solidly built from the waist up, legs ridiculously stunted. Garbed in identical fashion to its escort in a shapeless, knee-length vest of grey homespun, the pinkish and hairless skin visible on the patently alien face exhibited an unformed look, as if its wrinkly owner was recently birthed. Its disparately huge head was squarish and framed by fleshy bat-like ears that swiveled like antennae, orienting on the slightest sound, its turned-up nose twitching just as restlessly as it sifted betraying odors.
Dwelling in a world of eternal murk heightened some senses, atrophying others. The counterpoint to superior Gnome hearing, not to mention sense of smell and touch, was abject blindness. Generations of subterranean living, venturing aboveground only under the cosseting veil of night, eventually rendered the Underlanders eyeless, their sight organs shriveling away behind eyelids fused shut into thickened flaps of skin.
Long considered windows to the soul, Maldoch found the absence of eyes on the Gnome face disconcerting. Sightlessness masked troglodyte emotions, making them unreadable as stone, their feelings notoriously difficult to gauge. Regretful that Underland inaccessibility limited his contact with its perplexing people, the wizard likened dealing with Gnomes to playing blind man's bluff amid a bunch of porcupines.
"Do you want to put a name to your face, now that I can see you?” Maldoch prompted the Gnome in charge.
Uncrossing his arms, the leader of the small group replied forthrightly. “I'm nobody of consequence, a messenger sent to guide you to his holy presence."
Distracted by the Gnome's uncommonly long arms dangling downwards, the fingertips of the equally elongated digits brushing against the cave floor, Maldoch absently remarked, “The Serpentwearer is finally ready to receive us then."
"You. Only you, Maldochus."
Stifling disappointment at not getting his chance to leave the grotto, J'tard protested with a restrained grunt, too attached to his tongue to speak out of turn.
Following the Troll's prudence, the wizard did ask for the concession that they be untied and J'tard's hood pulled off.
"Prisoners don't get to make requests,” growled the Gnome.
Glancing over at his muzzled companion, Maldoch saw J'tard's bandaged torso quiver with the suppressed urge to blurt, I told you so.
Ordered to bring the spellcaster, the accompanying Gnomes grabbed Maldoch by his bound wrists. Yanking him to his feet, one their number slipped a bronze knife from out of a waist sash and, feeling for the bonds, slit the cords tying his ankles together. Maldoch found the cutter's nearness revealingly sexual. Barely noticeable under the formless folds of cloth, telltale chest bumps and broader hips indicated a woman. Slyly taking a shufti at her fellow guards exposed the same feminine curves shaping them. Bundling the wizard out of the cave, the women left J'tard in the friendless dark, his nearest company the amazon guard posted at the cave mouth.
Bustled along an uncomfortably black and low ceilinged passageway winding through the bedrock, one corridor in a series of interconnecting tunnels crisscrossing the extensive cave system, the downhill sloping floor indicated the resumption of Maldoch's hunched descent into the unknown begun a week earlier.
Navigating effortlessly through the blackness, Gnomes relied on sophisticated echolocation abilities for their guidance; a biological adaptation not solely confined to the toothed whales and bats. Certain owls emitted ultrasonic sounds and interpreted the signals bouncing back to better find their way in the dark of night. Rarer still amongst landlubbers, Gnomes shared this unique ability only with the humble shrew that likewise employed the technique when traversing burrows underground.
Clueless as to time and direction, after an indeterminate number of turns and twists the nameless guide ushered the disorientated wizard into a warmly lit chamber, Maldoch's escort manhandling him onto an uncomfortably hard stone stool before withdrawing to the entranceway.
To the Gnome glimpsed at the far end of the unadorned grotto whose back was rudely turned to him, Maldoch upheld his reputation for brusqueness and caustically remarked, “Such a sumptuous seat. Was the Dwarf King your decorator perchance?"
"Do not
speak of the Overlanders in Tuk's presence!” hissed the male head of the Gnome guards.
A cough from the mystery figure called for quiet. “Leave us, Elb."
Maldoch pointlessly leered at the silenced Gnome. “I can now put a name to the face, and it's just as short and unlovely."
"Why you..."
"Take the guards when you go,” Tuk commanded Elb.
"But—"
"I'm, we're, adequately protected. Go."
Glancing about the otherwise empty cave, Maldoch spied a curtained archway off to the side of Tuk, no doubt concealing his protection. After Elb departed with his guard contingent, the wizard correctly established before introductions were made, “You delegate with authority, Tuk, yet aren't the Serpentwearer."
Spinning around, the nondescript Gnome facing Maldoch nevertheless wore the unseen mantle of command like a cape. “You are very astute, Maldochus. What gave me away?"
"Elb's disrespect at answering you back and no raised serpentine birthmark on your wrist."
Pricking his ears, Tuk smiled falsely at the wizard, bothered by his acuity. Maldoch's reputation for insightfulness reached even into the depths of the earth, marking him deadlier than a parasitic borer worm.
Resuming playing mind games, Maldoch gazed up at a ceiling coated with dully glowing fungi, the red-orange bioluminescence casting its cheering rosiness throughout the tiny audience chamber devoid of any ornamentation. He quipped, “Not that I'm fault-finding at having light to see by, but why do blind people need lighting at all?"
Stiffening at the wizard's impudence, Tuk called across his shoulder, “Exalted One. Maldochus is here and waiting."
"I am old, Tuk, not deaf,” croaked an elderly voice.
The curtain parted, admitting a decrepit Gnome weighted down by his age and a cloak of metal rings, from which dangled on the front and back enormous ivory cones rattling with each timid step taken. Head bobbing nervously, furtive as a flitting songbird, the Serpentwearer refused to make eye contact with the wizard. Unworried, Maldoch centered his attention on the shadowy female warrior fleetingly glimpsed lurking in the backroom before the curtain swished back into place.
Wizard's Goal Page 57
