Thief of the Ancients

by Mike Wild

  “What?”

  Brundle smiled and turned his attention back to ploughing through the waves.

  “Child of Trass Kattra,” he roared, “welcome home!”

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHILD OF TRASS Kattra, Welcome Home! The words reverberated in Kali’s mind, begging a hundred different questions, but her attempts to gain an answer to any of them were thwarted by the choppy coastal waters they had entered. Brundle couldn’t hear a thing – or chose not to hear a thing – as he gunned the scuttlebarge’s engines, expertly playing the breakers, slapping and lurching the old and battered machine ever closer to land.

  They rounded the end of the island, and there approached a patch of darkness at the base of a cliff. A cave. It seemed this was their destination and, considering Brundle’s other words – about this being the Island of the Four, whatever that meant – Kali couldn’t help but start to imagine what wonders it might hold.

  Nothing, was the answer. Bugger all. Because as the cliff face swallowed the scuttlebarge, plunging it into shadow, there were no wondrous Old Race machines, no looming statues of ancient heroes, nothing, in fact, that suggested the island would live up to the promise of its name. Instead, as Brundle cut the engine and they drifted in, she saw a primitive jetty and walkway that was all but falling apart, lit by the few torches that hadn’t been broken. Those that weren’t picked out nets and seafood pots dangling from railings, spears, tridents and harpoons. There was even a pair of wellies stacked amongst them. The only signs of technology were the remains of three other scuttlebarges, in various states of disrepair, one of which bobbed by the jetty, the others lying skewed where they had been driven up against the sides of the cave for makeshift berthing.

  Something splashed near her right leg as it dangled in the water and Kali looked down. She spotted a huge keep net in which scores of fish the likes of which she’d never seen swam. One, the size of a floprat, bared sharp teeth and darted at her, and she snatched her leg from the water with a yelp.

  “Thrap,” Brundle stated. “Vicious little sods but good wi’ a shake o’ sea salt.”

  Kali nodded, not really listening. It was still here. Too still. The acoustics of the cave were such that they blocked out the sound of the raging seas beyond, and as she continued to look about in the flickering torchlight, listening to the slow lap of waves and almost soporific drips of water from the roof, she sensed that her surroundings had been like this for literally ages; a backwater at the end of the world, never, ever changing.

  “What is this place?”

  “Home.”

  “You live here?”

  “Aye. It ain’t much, but it satisfies our needs…”

  “Our needs?”

  Brundle pointed down at the keepnet. “I like a piece o’ thrap, lass, but not that much.”

  “How many of you are there, then?”

  “Two.”

  “Two?” Kali echoed. She stared at the keepnet. “Maybe still a little greedy.”

  “Aye, well… yer haven’t met the wife.”

  “Wife?”

  “Brogma,” Brundle said. “Wife number… blast it, ah forget what number she is, now.” He sighed, but Kali couldn’t tell whether tiredly or regretfully. “Believe me, there’ve bin a few.”

  “And Brogma – she’s a dwarf, too?”

  “O’ course she’s a bloody dwarf! Are yer thinkin’ ah’d marry an elf?!”

  “That isn’t what I meant. Don’t forget from my perspective dwarves are, er… a little short on the ground. I thought maybe that in the absence of anything else she might be human?”

  “Human? Pah to bloody human! There’s mendin’ to be done! Cleanin’! Cookin’! Forgin’! A human could no more satisfy me needs than one o’ them posin’ ponces, the elves!”

  Equality was clearly not big with dwarves, but Kali couldn’t help smiling. Of all the ways the ancient tales referred to the elves it was the first time she’d heard them called ‘posin’ ponces’. It almost made her feel better about Redigor’s presence on the island.

  The thought of the elf returned her mind to business – and the many questions she had. As the scuttlebarge bumped against the jetty and Brundle disembarked, hooking the machine’s nose with a thick hemp rope he then tied off, Kali ignored his offer of a hand and hopped up under her own steam, turning to block his path with hands on her hips.

  “Explanations,” she demanded. “Now.”

  “What explanation did yer have in mind?”

  “Oh, let’s see,” Kali said. “How about that little fondling act back in Gransk? Or why you wanted to blow up the ship to stop it coming here? And hey, while we’re at it, what was that thing out there in the swirlies, what the hells is this place and why’s it called the Island of the Four, and – oh, oh, last but not least – what the fark did you mean by welcome home?”

  The dwarf waited while his hair settled and the bells in his beard stopped jangling.

  “Have ye done?”

  “Yes!”

  Brundle sighed. “I can answer some o’ yer questions, lass, but not all. That tale’s a long one, and it ain’t mine for the tellin’.”

  “Then whose? Brogma?”

  “No, not Brogma.”

  “There’s someone else on the island?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Kali repeated, increasingly frustrated. “What is it with you, dwarf? Were you born awkward or did you take special classes?”

  “Special classes. I’ve had a lot of time to kill.”

  “Funny. Take me to them, then. Whoever can tell me the whole story.”

  “You’ll have yer little chat soon.”

  “Soon?”

  Brundle smiled. “Why don’t we have a little bit o’ tea first?”

  Kali growled in exasperation as the dwarf weaved his way past her, and, having no choice, followed. Brundle neared a rockface and, purposefully this time, jangled the bells in his beard. The sound they made was loud and distinctive. After a second, a chunk of the rock face before him, what Kali had thought was the end of the cave, rumbled aside, revealing a torch-lit passage. A waft of something cooking – powerfully fishy – came from within.

  “This way, smoothskin,” Brundle directed. And then shouted, “Hi, honey, I’m home!”

  Kali took one last look behind her and followed Brundle, possibly more bemused than she’d ever been. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected when she reached Trass Kathra – Trass Kattra, she corrected – but this certainly wasn’t it. And what she expected least of all, just before they exited the passage into what lay beyond, was a set of flowery curtains that Brundle, with some embarrassment, pulled aside.

  “Don’t blame me,” he growled. “We live with what we find.”

  “Live with what you fi –?” Kali half repeated, then stopped. The passage had led them into an inner cave which opened out before her, and though it was much the size of the one they had just left, there was barely an inch within it to move. The whole place was crammed with enough junk to fill a city of scrapyards, piled up against the walls, across the floor, in great piles in the corners of the chamber. At least Kali presumed they were the corners of the chamber, because as far as she could tell this rubbish might go on for ever. It was like looking at the World’s Ridge Mountains made out of crap.

  Despite being overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the stuff, however, she couldn’t help but be drawn to specific items contained in the mounds. Because most of this stuff was old – very old – and despite it being bruised and battered she still felt a little like a child let loose in a confectionarium.

  “Where the hells did you get all this?”

  The dwarf shrugged. “Plenty is washed up by the storms or makes its way on the tides. Or was salvaged from the wrecks o’ those daft enough to try to take on the Stormwall. When that bastard really packed a punch, that was.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve suggested the Stormwall is less than it was.
”

  “All ah can say, smoothskin, is that one upon a time she were magnificent. Stretched around the peninsula like a necklace o’ heavenly fire, she did, from both ends o’ the World’s Ridge to the Sarcre Islands. Nothin’ could get through it. Nothin’ at all.”

  “You mean it was some kind of wall?”

  “Just something that was where the mountains weren’t.”

  “What the hells is that supposed to mean?”

  “That, smoothskin, isn’t me place to tell.”

  “How did I know you were going to say that?”

  “Now, where was I? Oh, aye. That which doesn’t find its way here otherwise is foraged around the coast of the mainland. Ah make trips five or six times a year with the scuttlebarge an’ a sled. Generally tie ’er up in Ten Bones Bay. It was the trip before last ah learned about the buildin’ o’ that bloody Black Ship, an’ scuttled back here as fast as ah could for me bombs…”

  Kali nodded, only half listening. She was working her way through the twisting avenues created by his collection, hands caressing shapes and objects of all sizes as she went, most of them unscathed by what might have been millennia in the sea. Even though she didn’t have a clue what the pieces were – especially as they were only bits of pieces, as it were – she lingered over one or two of them as she might over works of art, trying to find meaning in the precisely turned metal objects, perfectly curved and rune-inscribed plating, the sheer craftsmanship involved in their smallest parts and in every other aspect of their making. They sure as hells didn’t make ’em like that anymore. Yet.

  One piece she came across was a work of art. It was a painting of what she at first thought was herself and Brundle on the scuttlebarge, but on closer inspection realised that couldn’t be the case at all. For one thing, how could it be here, now, and for another the figure she’d thought was her own was sitting in the pilot’s seat, not the dwarf. The fact that the woman was also considerably older than she – more, what was the word they used, handsome? – seemed to confirm the fact. It was intriguing, though. At least until Brundle punched her on the shoulder.

  “Take a left just up ahead,” he instructed. “Six paces and a right, twenty left and straight on. I’ll be right behind ye.”

  Despite the dwarf’s words, he wasn’t – lagging behind grumbling, tutting and occasionally striking a piece of junk with his fist, as if he’d noticed a flaw somewhere. Kali was therefore alone when, having followed his directions she emerged cautiously into what appeared to be a living area in the heart of the tunnels. It was as packed with junk as the rest of the place but one small area had been set out with chairs, a table made, it seemed, from the panelling of an elven dirigible, and a kitchen with a ferocious looking stove on which three cauldrons bubbled.

  A short, squat – that was, shorter and squatter than usual – dwarf, a female of the species, stirred them one by one. Her back was to Kali and she was dressed in a pinny and flowery skirt which looked to have been cut from the same cloth as the curtain that Brundle had pulled aside.

  “Hello, dear,” she said, without turning. “Did you have fun blowing up your boat?”

  “Er, hi…” Kali said.

  The dwarf span, ladles in hands, and some fishy gloop splattered Kali’s face. It was hot but she didn’t move, letting it drip from her chin. The best course of action here, it seemed, was to simply stand there and smile.

  “Hammers of Ovilar,” the dwarf gasped. “You almost made me rust me pantaloons.”

  “Sorry,” Kali said, cringing.

  Brogma, for this was presumably she, waddled forward and prodded her in the chest. It had to be, Kali was beginning to think, a family trait.

  “By the gods, who are ye, girl?”

  “This,” Jerragrim Brundle announced, slapping Kali in the back and almost sending her face first into a cauldron, “is Kali Hooper. You’ve heard of Kali Hooper, haven’t yer, wife?”

  “No.”

  “No, neither had I. But she’s –” Brundle moved forward and whispered something in the female dwarf’s ear. Her eyebrows rose. Very high.

  “Is she?” she said.

  Brundle nodded conspiratorially. “But where are me manners?” he declared. “Smoothskin, this is me wife, Brogma. Brogma, this is… well, bugger it, yer know the rest.”

  “Sit yourself down, dear,” Brogma said. “You’re just in time for tea.”

  “Look, that’s very kind but I don’t have time for tea. I have to help my friends and –” Kali paused, staring daggers at Brundle “– find out what’s going on.”

  “Yes, of course, dear. As one of the Four, you must.”

  Kali couldn’t hide her surprise. “You know about the Four?”

  “Of course!” Brogma declared, ladelling up food. “Keep an eye on things, I do. Now, let me see – there’s the shadowmage, Lucius Kane; the Sister of the Order of the Swords of Dawn, Gabriella DeZantez; the mariner, Silus Morlader; and the explorer, Marryme Moo –”

  Brundle coughed. “That’ll be enough now, Brogma.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kali said. “What?”

  “Keep an eye on things, I do.”

  “That isn’t what I meant,” Kali said. “What was that name you said? Who in the hells is Marryme Moo?”

  Brundle coughed again and motioned for Kali to bend, so that he might whisper in her ear. “Brogma’s gettin’ on a bit,” he explained. “This Marryme Moo is someone she once knew – someone much like yourself – and she’s a little confused.”

  “She’s not the only one,” Kali said. She wasn’t at all sure that Brundle was being truthful with her, but how could she argue? Looking at Brogma, just standing there smiling, she couldn’t deny that she seemed a little, well, challenged. What to do? The obvious answer was to ask the question she hadn’t yet asked, but was becoming the most important of all.

  “Jerry – can I trust you?”

  The dwarf looked affronted.

  “It has been the Caretaker’s job to wait for you since the day the Old Races died,” he replied, as if that were an answer. “Now do as the lady wife asks, and sit.”

  Kali hesitated for a second. Two weeks of living off scraps on the Black Ship had left her starving, and she’d be of little use to anyone if she didn’t eat soon. Reluctantly, she did as asked, and Brundle plopped a bowl of grey sludge in her lap. The act was the first of many which would lead to her regretting her decision.

  “What is this?” Kali asked.

  “Starter.”

  “No, I mean, what is this?”

  “Thrap.”

  “Oh. I thought – I mean, from the smell – that the main course was thrap.”

  “It is.”

  “Ah. The pudding wouldn’t by any chance be thrap?”

  “No, smartarse. A big, juicy steak.”

  “Steak for pudding?”

  “Okay, I lied. It’s thrap.”

  It got worse from there. Despite the monotony of the menu, Kali devoured her food, trying to fire off questions between mouthfuls, but getting nowhere. Brundle ate like a pigrat, a series of slurps, chomps, sucks and grunts drowning out her words. His table manners were nowhere near as disturbing as Brogma’s, however, who simply tipped her head back and dropped fish after fish into her gullet, like a seal. Kali almost expected her to oink and clap.

  “Essential oils,” Brundle said, smiling.

  The meal ended at last, and Kali was about to fire off her questions once more when Brundle let out an almighty belch and excused himself for the bathroom, farting loudly as he went. Brogma, seemed to have no such need, and instead waddled to a cupboard and extracted a great tangle of what looked like wire. She slumped into an armchair and, from its side, took two large needles and began to play the wire with them, teasing, turning and pulling it up towards her. As she caught two strands, the needles began to clack, and soon the wires were being knitted together with such disturbing dexterity the act was almost a blur.

  The strange thing was, Brogma didn’t even lo
ok at the wires – not once. Stared straight ahead all the time. Kali frowned and eased herself from her chair, noticing for the first time a strange, silvery tint to the old woman’s eyes. She waved her palm up and down in front of them and there was no reaction. Brogma, it appeared, was blind.

  “Is there something I can do for you, dear?”

  Kali started. “What are you, erm, knitting?”

  “Brains, dear,”

  “Brains?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “Right,” Kali said, and backed off.

  She decided that any other queries, knitting-related or not, could and should wait until Brundle returned. To pass the time – and take her mind off the noises emanating from that part of the cave into which Brundle had departed – she examined some of the odder objects she’d spotted earlier. The first was a piece of thin metal which, whichever way it was bent, returned to its original shape, which was always that of a parrot. The second, something that looked like a tuning fork but which shattered a rock when she tried it, she put quickly away. A third object appeared at first glance to be some kind of jack-in-the-box, but when Kali opened the lid it wasn’t a grinning head that popped out but some strange spherical device that flew straight up and began diligently to drill a hole in the cave’s roof. Kali coughed, whistled and walked away.

  Her path brought her to an object that was perhaps the oddest of all. The base of a large tree trunk secured to the wall by its splayed, gnarled roots, looking like a wooden sun. The trunk had been cleanly sawn through to reveal its rings, the number of which attested to its great age. It did not seem to have been treated with the respect it was due, however, having been used as a dartboard at some point, and what was even more disturbing was the ‘darts’ were the feathery, desiccated remains of three small skewerbills, their tiny eyes still frozen wide with alarm from the moment of impact.

  Kali turned her attention to a number of inscriptions carved into the wood. They were in a very ancient dwarven script she struggled to translate and, when she had, wondered whether she should have bothered. Brogma 32 Gone Today, Miss Her. One Thousand Years, Candles Broke the Cake. Fish For Tea Today, Tomorrow an’ the Day After. By Bollocks, I’m Bored...