He was beginning to think that the village had been deliberately looted. And yet, it was also tidy—as if someone had been through afterwards. Well, there was still one more hut to check.
He pushed his way past the hut's entrance and immediately noticed a faint pungent smell, as if something—fishes, perhaps—had been cooked there. Orvig allowed himself a faint smile. Perhaps the village wasn't deserted after all.
Rathe had found a pyramid of skulls.
They were stacked in a pigpen behind a hut on the western edge of the village: nearly a dozen skulls, a grisly monument of bleached white bone. In front, facing the forest, was planted a wooden pole or staff, about three feet long and a finger's breadth thick. Attached to it was a leather thong from which hung a spirit mask. The entire length of the pole was carved with runes.
Although the day was warm, Rathe shivered. Was he seeing the fate of Adra's villagers? But there weren't enough skulls...
Rathe climbed over the pen's fence and squinted at the runes on the staff. Some of the symbols seemed familiar: the middle one seemed like an abstracted version of the rune in his dream, on the ring he now wore. Others were totally unfamiliar. But felt drawn to them all. He had a sudden desire to touch the staff, to possess it—but the very strength of the feeling made him doubt it.
Everyone knew magick was treacherous.
There was something odd about the skulls, too. They seemed almost malformed... Gingerly, Rathe reached down and grasped one of the ivory domes, taking care not to unbalance the pyramid and bring them all down. He traced its texture with his fingers. It felt dry but curiously brittle. It was intact, showing no sign of damage, and lighter than he thought it would be... but then, he had never held a human skull before.
Then he realized what was wrong. The slope of the forehead was subtly different, the jaw enlarged, the teeth pointed. Not human, Rathe realized. But far too large to be a sharga skull. Certainly not a dwarf. What did that leave? It had to belong to a throg.
He examined others. They were throg skulls, all right. That made him feel a bit better, but not much. What were they doing here, in a human village? Had the Whispering Death been here? Involuntarily, Rathe glanced at the sky. The sun was low and veiled in cloud, but dusk was still at least an hour away. The only living thing he saw was a distant bird—it looked like a hawk, or maybe even an eagle—wheeling over the forest. It was time to find Orvig, he decided. Maybe the dwarf would know what the skulls meant.
Then Rathe heard the sound. Was it a kind of rustling? Or slithering? It was behind him, on the other side of the nearest hut. Getting closer. A vision of the giant snakeskin popped into his mind. Twenty feet long, he thought. His sword whispered from its scabbard, and he crouched down, taking cover behind the pile of skulls.
Seconds passed like hours. Hunkered down, he waited for it to appear, darting quick glances over his shoulder. Gods, he thought. What if it's gone after Orvig? He heard a pebble move. Time to risk it. Moving slowly, so as not to alarm the snake, he peered around the pile.
And found himself staring into wide green eyes only inches from his own—and a long knife, thrusting for his heart!
As Orvig entered the hut, wood chips crunched softly underfoot. Shards of broken pottery, old fish bones and one leather sandal with a broken strap lay in the corner. A cloak made entirely of black feathers hung from a peg in the wall, next to a pair of dangling fish hooks. Suspended from the ceiling was a wicker cage imprisoning the tiny skeleton of a bird.
There were no spirit masks hanging above the entrance. That made sense to Orvig: this was clearly an abode of the living, not the dead. But it was strange, disturbing. To a dwarf, used to the tidy order of Stonekeep, the hut was chaos.
Orvig examined the room. A russet blanket was spread out in the middle of the room, and on it was spread the debris of a meal, fish bones, crumbs and nutshells. Ants scurried about, gathering them up. The hut reeked of burnt charcoal, fish, and herbal smells Orvig couldn't quite place. A single spear stood propped against the wall, just inside the entrance. Orvig hefted it experimentally: it was tipped with flint rather than iron, its ash shaft decorated with owl feathers, but the workmanship seemed good. Carved on the spear's blade were runes that even Orvig could recognized. They spelled death. Hurriedly, he put it back down.
Orvig nodded to himself. Herbs. Skeletons. Runes. The room reeked of magick.
Careful not to trip over the clutter, the dwarf stepped over a wooden wash tub—it was filled with dirty water—and plucked the bag from the stool. It was made of doeskin, drawn tight with a leather thong. He weighed it: it felt heavy, and he could feel several things inside. Stones?
He fumbled with the knot.
"Wait!" Rathe cried. He parried the thrust with his sword, then backpedaled. "Kelandra, wait!"
"You!" the woman exclaimed. She stepped back, then slipped her knife into a belt sheath.
"Sorry," Rathe replied. He sheathed his own blade, feeling foolish. "I thought you were a snake."
"Oh, aye?" Kel said. She brushed sweat-soaked brown locks out of her eyes. "That what you were sneaking about for? I feared you'd try to stick me, and I'd have to spit you."
"I heard a snake nearby." Rathe said. "And we saw a big snake-skin a few miles away." He shrugged, feeling foolish. Twice, now, Kel had surprised him. At least this time she seemed nearly as startled as he was. "Stupid of me."
"Maybe," Kel said. "But maybe not. We get big ones in these parts, sure. Frightened you, did it? What did it look like?"
"Gray, like any snakeskin," Rathe said shortly. Somehow, he got the impression Kel was playing with him. "But it's not important." He gestured around him. "Is this your village?"
"I be Kelandra of Adra," she said formally. "And this"—and Rathe sensed an edge to her voice, "is Adra." She stepped forward and sat down on the pig-pen's fence, next to him. "And you are Rathe of Stonekeep, but I know little else. Save that I'm glad you still live."
Reflexively, Rathe touched his forehead. The wound still itched.
The young woman nodded. "You fell, and yet you survived. Be grateful. Few who bear the scars of the Whispering Death can say that."
"You saw our battle?" asked Rathe. He had supposed that she'd left after warning them.
"A little, from the forest's shelter. Heard more, though. I came back when the Tse'Mara were gone, saw your folk dragging you off. Still, better than I thought, you did." She favored him with a grim smile. "It was a good match."
"Many of us didn't make it," said Rathe. He gave her a challenging look. "Was it sport, to you?"
"Sport?" Kel was on her feet, eyes blazing. Her fingers curled around her knife.
"Wait," said Rathe hurriedly. "I meant no offense, lady. I know your warning saved many lives."
But the girl's temper crested as quickly as it had broken. "No," she said, sitting back down. "You have the right of it, Rathe. I should have helped, maybe, but one short blade would have been scant use in the storm of wings and iron. But as I said, your Keep-bred warriors did well enough—once you took over as war-chief." And this time she did smile, though it flickered across her face almost too fast to catch. Rathe liked what he saw. "Where are your warriors?" she asked.
She may have a nice smile, Rathe told himself, but I know nothing about her. "On patrol," he compromised. He cast for a question of his own. "But tell me. This village—Adra. Where is everyone, Kel?"
The woman's eyes narrowed. "Are you blind to the masks?" she exclaimed, "Less than a moon has passed, so their spirits still linger here."
"They're dead," Rathe guessed.
"Did I not say?" Kel replied. Her eyes burned dangerously, and Rathe felt an urge to back away. But instead, her hot gaze left him and turned inward. "My kin and clan. I carved the masks. Their remains I dragged to the hollow hills. The carrion that the Tse'Mara scorned to take. And each day, the masks ask me: what have you done, Kelandra? Why do you live?"
"I share your grief," Rathe said. He wanted to ask Kel how she sur
vived. Instead, he extended his hand.
After a hesitation, Kel clasped it, her shoulders shaking. Her hand was slightly smaller than his own. "I..." she started to say. Then she froze.
"Kelandra?" Rathe looked around, up, wondering if she had spotted something.
"No, your ring," she said. She grasped his wrist, turned his hand over until she could see the gleaming black stone. "What is that rune?"
"It's a family heirloom." He shrugged, feeling reluctant to have to explain the dreams. "I wasn't wearing it last time. But tell me," he waved at the bone pyramid. "What are those skulls doing there? They're throgs, aren't they?"
Rathe was unprepared for the look of savage satisfaction that lit up Kel's face. "Une-Makhar warriors," she said, "who were careless."
"Une-Makhar?" The word meant nothing to Rathe.
Kel got up, began pacing back and forth. "A throg tribe from the broken lands to the north. But now they lay claim to the forest."
"Were they your people's enemies?" Rathe asked.
"No!" Kel said. She lowered her voice, but Rathe could feel the anger in it. "Not then, anyway. Some skirmishes, over the hunt, but some trade, also. We had a treaty. But a month ago, the Whispering Death came. I was gathering herbs in the wood. When I returned, all were dead. The creatures were feeding on the bodies."
"But what of the throgs?"
She gave a harsh laugh. "While the Tse'Mara fed, the throgs came, like maggots to a rotting corpse. Our hunters could have stood against the throgs, or fled into the forest and harried them. But against the Whispering Death, they fell. We all fell. All but me."
"Where did they come from?"
"The Death? Once they lived in the mountains, preying on small game and mountain goats. But now, someone controls them..."
"The rune underneath!" Rathe exclaimed.
"You saw that, did you?" said Kel. She gave him an appraising look. "Aye, the blood-rune."
"But why do you think the throgs control them? They might just be scavengers," Rathe searched for an analogy, "like jackals following the tiger."
"No! The Une-Makhar are on the move. Bands of their warriors roam the north woods, which they claim as their own. Had you continued your journey, Rathe, you would surely have met them. And sometimes Tse'Mara land among their war-parties. I have seen Une-Makhar warriors speak to a Tse'Mara, as a man does to a dog. And—" she paused. "I have heard their tale from their own lips."
"What do you mean?" Rathe asked. He felt a sudden chill. There was something in her tone...
"Ah, but it was at Gothmeg village, you see. I went there, afterwards, to warn them, to rouse their warriors. Silly of me, Rathe. Gothmeg is closer to the throg lands. Of course the Une-Makhar and the Tse'Mara had already come and gone. But I found two throgs who had stayed to loot the dead." She walked over to the pile of skulls, lifted one from the bottom of the heap, caressed it. "He was my first. He told me as much as he could, aye, and he wished to tell me more. For his life ended when his words did."
Orvig worked patiently with the bag, his stubby fingers deftly teasing at the tightly-knotted leather thongs. Finally he had it open. Its contents spilled into his hands.
They were not stones, but rather two dozen disks of bone, each carved with a spidery rune. Even in the dim light of the hut, Orvig recognized them: this was a complete set of the Ithark, the runes of lore, shared by both human and dwarf magickers. While they could not breach the future's veil, it was said that the wise could use them to reveal past and present.
Orvig knew it took power to carve the Ithark, and to make the deathrunes he had seen on the spear. Nor would such objects be left unguarded. He stood in a magicker's lair—could this be the seat of his enemy, the one who had caused Jhen to be lost? He thought of a bloody rune drawn on a hard insect shell, and drew his shortsword. The rasp of the blade was answered by a soft hiss.
"I hunt them now," said Kel, her words soft, but sharp as a blade. She had returned the skull to the pile. "It's a strange sensation, Rathe, stalking by daylight rather than night, for the throgs and their beasts prefer the dark and the deep and are drowsy under the sun. Not like hunting animals. But eleven warriors have I sent to join their god. Two have lived long enough to question." Her fingers stroked her sheathed knife. "But I learned little enough. I don't know their tongue, and they knew little of human speech. Perhaps the next one will be different."
Rathe felt repelled by her vindictiveness. Yet in his mind he could see the broken bodies of Dren, Hoth and Nam, and the mangled corpses of the Seth party. The forest is cruel, he told himself. What if Orvig or Tam had fallen? Would he make a shrine to vengeance, heaping the skulls of his foes?
Is that why I'm here? The thought disturbed him. I'm after Jhen, he told himself. And answers.
"Have you heard of a dwarf woman? Maybe hiding from the throgs? Or taken by them?"
"What?" Kelandra tore her gaze away from the grinning trophies. "Oh, your dwarf's sister. Not I. When I came upon your folk on the hill, they had been dead some hours. I heard you speaking of her, that's all. What be her name, Rathe?"
"Jhen Stone--"
Rathe's words were cut short by a sudden yell.
"Help!"
"It's Orvig!" Rathe exclaimed, leaping to his feet. He drew his sword and ran toward the noise. The girl followed on his heels.
The shouting was coming from a small hut at the eastern edge of the village. Rathe thrust its curtain open... and stopped dead.
Orvig was backed into the hut's far corner, a wooden stool held in one hand as a shield, his sword in the other. In front of him swayed a large serpent, easily twice his height, though its body was no wider than his fist.
The mottled snake darted in and out, gliding away from Orvig's sword thrusts with frightening ease. It seemed to be playing with him. The dwarf was breathing in short rasps.
"Rathe," Orvig gasped. "Snake."
"Stay put," Rathe said. He stepped forward, slipping the shield off his back. The snake slid back, turned to meet him, its yellow eyes gleaming in the hut's gloom.
Rathe was ready. He intended to block the snake with the shield and slice off its head with a single blow. If that failed, they could pin it between them. He raised his shield high—and felt Kel's hand on his shoulder.
"Stop! Don't kill him!" Kelandra said. She squeezed past him, and waggled a finger at the snake: "Stupid—can't you tell a dwarf from a throg?"
As Rathe and Orvig looked on, the snake cocked its head and hissed at her, then moved slowly forward. Kel knelt, letting it wrap itself around her arm, its tongue licking delicately at her face.
"He is Akeshi," Kelandra said. She turned to face Rathe. "The keeper of my spirit."
Chapter Four
The snake cradled in her arms, Kelandra surveyed the wreckage of her hut. Broken pots and other debris lay strewn about, scattered by the fight. She shook her head ruefully. "I'll clean this up. Then we can share a meal, if you've a mind."
"That would be welcome," Rathe said. "We can help clean up. Or would you rather we made a cook fire?"
"No!" exclaimed Kel. "Make no blaze in Adra! The Une-Makkar think the village empty now. I'll not change that."
"Fire draws them, then?" Orvig asked.
"Like other beasts, the Tse'Mara fear it," Kel said. "But there may be throgs about. If they see a fire..."
"Fine," said the dwarf. "We'll be outside, if you need us." He shooed Rathe out, then followed him.
Behind the hut, Rathe confronted the dwarf.
"What's that about?" Rathe demanded. "You were rude. We should have helped her."
"Aye, but I had reason. We need to talk. Let's get away from her hut." Orvig walked a few paces away. Rathe grumbled but followed him. They seated themselves in the long shadow of a tree.
For a long moment, they stared westward. The sun was low in the sky. The forest was quiet, the only sounds the distant cries of nightbirds. Rathe found himself wondering how Tam was doing. Were they nearing Stonekeep? Or had they met th
e Tse'Mara—or worse?
Orvig broke into his reverie. "Kelandra," he said. He glanced back at the hut. "What do you really know about her, anyway? Why is the village empty? The death-masks?"
"She told me what happened here." Rathe said. He stopped, uncertain how to explain Kel. It was an unusual feeling. He didn't want to hide things from Orvig, but...
"Go on."
"The Whispering Death wiped out the whole village. Kel was the only survivor—she'd been off in the woods when it happened, gathering herbs or something. When she came back, she said the village had been looted—but by throgs. They were controlling the monsters." He paused. "It happened about a month ago. She buried her folk, made the death masks. She's been living here alone ever since."
"Huh," said Orvig. "throgs, eh? So that's what she meant." He tugged angrily at his beard. "And you believe her?"
"Oh yes," said Rathe. A pile of bleached white bone. I wish I didn't believe her, but I do. "Look, I know her snake—Akeshi?—gave you a fright, but it doesn't mean she'll do us any harm. It was only protecting her house. You probably frightened it when you were going through her things."
"I don't dispute that, boy. But did you see what I found?"
"No, I was too busy saving you." Rathe chuckled. "You looked ridiculous, waving that stool about. So, what did you find?"
"Magick," Orvig said gravely. "Scrying bones. A rune magick. Did she tell you she was a magicker, boy?"
Rathe remembered the rune-carved staff, planted like a sentinel in front of the skulls. It made sense. "Well, not in so many words. But..."
"And something else, boy. Runes on a spear. Death spells, boy. We're searching for a shaman who could control the Tse'Mara, boy. Perhaps we've found her, eh?"
"It's not Kel." said Rathe. "I'm certain."
"She's a pretty face, to be sure, but..."
"It's not that!" Rathe said heatedly.
"Oh, aye?" Orvig said innocently.
"I mean, she has good reason. She's the only one left here." He went on, retelling the story of Kel's hunt. The dwarf listened silently, though his eyes narrowed as Rathe spoke of the pile of skulls.
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