Blood in Snow: (The Riddle in Stone Series - Book Three)

by Robert Evert

  “It is miserable; my marrow hasn’t been warm since autumn. But it’s not that.”

  “Then what?”

  “Well, it’s just …”

  “What?”

  Pond tucked another blanket around Abby.

  “If I’m any judge, I don’t think Abby is the type of woman who’d want to settle in one spot. She’s … she’s more like Becky. Always having to get into trouble.”

  Becky stopped cracking the foot’s bones and looked up at him. The foot healed, and she continued chewing on its big toe.

  “She’ll want to do something other than just sit around.” Pond resumed stroking Abby’s head.

  “I know you haven’t asked for it, but I’m going to give you a piece of advice a good friend once gave me: Enjoy what you have now, and don’t worry too much about what the future might bring. Things will always work out in the end.”

  Pond nodded. “Your friend is very wise. Brilliant, in fact.”

  Edmund’s laugh disturbed the baby, who stretched, opened an eye, and then went back to sleep.

  “Thanks for everything you’ve done for me, Ed: getting me out of the pits, and the wet cell, and the mines. Saving me in the Undead King’s library.” He brushed Abby’s white hair. “Saving Abby.” He smiled at Edmund, tears welling. “Thanks for everything.”

  Edmund nudged his shoulder. “You’ve given me far more.”

  Pond snorted. “What have I given you?”

  “You taught me how to be happy. You made my life better in so many ways, I can’t even begin to count. I couldn’t have …” Edmund blinked up at the trees, fighting back his own tears. “I couldn’t have done anything without you. I’d be miserable.”

  “Then let’s call it even.”

  “Indeed.”

  Together they stared at the fire, its orange glow reflecting off of their tired faces.

  “Pond?” Edmund said after a while. “If Abby wants to adventure, or travel, or whatever—go with her. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

  “I just hope Abby will be.” Pond dragged his mitten under his nose.

  “She will. Just give her some time.”

  Again the baby stirred.

  “We really need to give you a name,” Edmund whispered to her. “And I’m horrible at such things. I actually named a dog ‘Thorax.’”

  The fire sizzled and popped.

  “Use one of the names from your stories,” Pond suggested. “There has to be somebody throughout history you admire.”

  “You know, I never really noticed before … but there aren’t many heroines in the old tales. Everything was done by men, or at least that’s what the history books tell us.”

  “Well, between these two”—Pond motioned to Abby and the baby—“I’d say that’s going to change. Abby will stir up the world, whether the world is ready or not. People will still be writing tales about her even a hundred years from now, and …” He considered the yawning baby, warm under the pile of blankets. “I think the same thing about her. I don’t know what it is; she’s just different somehow. She’s destined for great things.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right.”

  “Afraid?”

  “People who do great things rarely have a moment’s peace. And that’s all I want for her: peace and happiness.”

  Pond threw more twigs onto the fire while Edmund stared at the flickering flames, trying to recall if any stories had heroines in them. For the life of him, he couldn’t think of any. Many of the stories had women, of course, though they were always getting trapped in towers or dungeons, only to be rescued by brave knights.

  “Elanor,” Pond said.

  “What?”

  “Call her Elanor.”

  “Elanor,” Edmund repeated. “Ellie.”

  The baby turned to one side and sucked her tiny thumb.

  “What made you think of Elanor?”

  Pond shrugged. “There was a woman named Elanor where I grew up. Her husband was a fisherman with several boats, pretty well-to-do. Anyway, one day he died, and she took over the business. Everybody laughed at her, wanting her to sell the boats and get remarried so she’d be taken care of. But she refused and ended up making a good living on her own. She even captained one of the boats.”

  “Elanor,” Edmund said again with satisfaction. “I like it. We’ll call you Ellie.” He kissed Ellie’s cheek. “My little Ellie …”

  “So,” Edmund said to Pond after a while, “whatever happened to the original Elanor?”

  “Lost at sea. Nobody ever knew what happened to her.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  It took nearly a week of hiking through the snow and evading goblin patrols before they finally reached the ruined tower of Tol Helen. Abby, now stronger, could walk somewhat, but they’d lost her snowshoes, and it was easier for Pond to carry her than for her to wade through the waist-high drifts.

  Ellie seemed perfectly fine; she ate whatever they gave her, including Edmund’s magically created biscuits, and the cold didn’t faze her in the slightest. In fact, if bundled too tightly while she slept, she’d kick off her sweaty blankets when everybody else was chilled to the bone. She never cried and watched everything with a sometimes unnerving intense curiosity. Often she tried to play with Becky, but after having her ear pulled one too many times, Becky kept her distance.

  “I can walk,” Abby said.

  Pond let her slide down from his back.

  The snow on the winding road wasn’t deep, but the slope was steep and slippery. Abby trudged alongside Pond and Edmund.

  “What’re we going to do here?”

  “Lionel’s men stored a lot of their supplies in the tower,” Edmund told her. “I want Ellie to have some decent food for a change. Plus, there should be some fur blankets and a toboggan or two. I don’t want Ellie to get cold, and it’ll be easier to pull the both of you on a toboggan than to carry you all the way to Rood.”

  “I can walk,” Abby insisted, though her steps resembled Fatty Moron’s—slow and deliberate. Pond had to often grab ahold of her arm so she didn’t fall.

  “Also”—Edmund swung the pillowcase with the Undead King’s fully formed head, smashing it into the hillside as they climbed—“I’m getting tired of lugging this around.”

  “What are you going to do with it?” Pond asked. “Burn it?”

  “No. It’ll just keep healing itself. We can’t destroy him, but maybe we can make sure his head is never found.”

  They continued up the narrow road to the partially ruined tower.

  Inside the tower’s main hall, there were stores of supplies that Lionel’s men-at-arms brought from Rood. Much of what had been brought appeared to be missing, but there were extra blankets, food, weapons, several toboggans, a heap of dry firewood, and the last cask of Vin’s magically created apple cider.

  “Well, this’ll certainly keep us warm until we get home.” Edmund shook the cask. “It’s nearly full.”

  “I’m really sorry about what happened with Vin,” Pond said sadly. “Honestly, I, I should have known that—”

  “It’s melted snow, as we say in the north. You couldn’t have known what would happen. What’s done is done. Try not to beat yourself up over it.”

  But Pond didn’t appear consoled.

  Edmund set Ellie down on pile of blankets before the fireplace and stacked wood on the hearth as wind howled through the crumbled portions of the tower.

  “How long until we get back to Rood?” Abby asked, gingerly lowering herself to the floor next to Ellie.

  “Twelve days.” Edmund rearranged the wood in the fireplace. “Maybe more. It feels like snow’s on the way. If it is, we might want to stay here until it blows over. We’d be a lot w-warmer here than out there.”

  He extended his right palm toward the wood, tried to shoot a ball of fire at it. But nothing happened.

  “Still don’t know how you did it back in the nursery?” Pond asked.

  Edmund sighed. “Not a clue. Just
like in the pit with Turd, it just happened. I have to learn more magic.”

  He touched the wood and cast his fire spell.

  “Fyre av nå.”

  A small flame leapt up and licked at the kindling.

  “There.” Edmund rubbed his hands together, then blew on them. “Soon we’ll be able to thaw out a bit.”

  “Boys?” Abby said somewhat urgently. “Should she be doing that?”

  Edmund turned around. Ellie was walking.

  “Hey!” he cried. “She can walk! Wow! Look at her go. Ellie. Ellie, come to me! Come here, sweetie.”

  But Ellie continued toddling toward Becky, who got up and, taking the Undead King’s foot, repositioned herself across the room. Ellie changed course and waddled after her, steps growing more confident and determined as she went. She was practically running.

  “Way to go!” Edmund scooped her up and kissed her. “I’m so proud of you! Your first steps!”

  “I don’t think those were her first steps,” Abby said, puzzled. “What is she? Twelve months, maybe thirteen? Babies her age don’t just suddenly walk; they usually stumble and fall down a lot.”

  “Well, Ellie is just a naturally gifted walker!” Edmund said in a baby voice.

  Pond and Abby exchanged uneasy glances.

  Ellie pointed at Becky.

  Becky grabbed the foot, toes wiggling as if being tickled, and hid herself behind a stack of supplies.

  “Which reminds me.” Edmund kicked the pillowcase and handed Ellie to Abby. “Do you two mind watching her for a bit? I have something to do.”

  “What?”

  Edmund bashed the pillowcase into the stone wall as hard as he could. It sounded like the Undead King’s skull cracked open. “I want to put this where nobody can find it.”

  Ellie stretched out her arms, begging for Edmund to carry her.

  “Stay there, sweetie. I’ll be back in a minute. Becky, stay with Abby.”

  Ellie made a “give me” motion with her fingers, but Edmund was already jogging up the stairs, smashing the head into every pillar he passed.

  Much of Tol Helen’s southern face had collapsed centuries before, exposing the upper levels to screeching wind and snow, but the stone stairs spiraling up the tower’s spine, though cracked and rutted, were still intact, as were many of the interior rooms.

  Sprinting up the steps two at a time, Edmund soon came to the chamber where he’d been captured by Kravel and Gurding. Much to his surprise, the secret door was open.

  “Odd.” He peered into the darkness of the passageway leading down to the subterranean lake below the mountain. “Maybe I—”

  Something struck Edmund hard across the back. He dropped the bag and stumbled forward, crying out.

  “It’s about blasted time,” said a voice behind him.

  Edmund whirled about and gasped. “Gurding!”

  The goblin held a broken scimitar, its blade having been snapped against the black chainmail Edmund wore under his outer coat. Across Gurding’s face trailed a long white scar, slicing deep across his dead right eye to just above his left brow. “You are so predictable, Filth,” the goblin said, gripping the scimitar’s hilt. “I knew you’d come back here eventually. All I had to do was wait.”

  Edmund drew his sword. Gurding’s functioning eye noted its black blade, but he appeared undaunted.

  “What do you think you’ll do?” Edmund laughed. “Take me back to your precious king? Because you don’t have as far to go as you think.”

  Gurding drew a long dagger from his belt and began to circle Edmund.

  “Let’s just say you won’t have to worry about seeing the pits again,” Gurding growled. “I’m going to kill you slowly—very slowly, you miserable maggot. I’m going to make you suffer—”

  “Yes, yes. Like I’ve never suffered before. I know. Everybody keeps telling me that.” Edmund laughed again. He kicked the pillowcase over to Gurding. “Do me a favor and open the bag.”

  Somebody was running up the stairs.

  “Ed?” Pond called.

  “Pond!” Edmund shouted, as he looked for an opening to attack. “Don’t interfere.”

  “What?” Pond appeared at the landing, breathing hard. He noticed Gurding and immediately drew his rapier.

  “No!” Edmund kept his sword tip leveled at Gurding. “He’s mine. I should have killed him before, but I won’t make the same mistake now.”

  Gurding chuckled, broken scimitar in one hand, dagger in the other. The dagger’s blade glistened. “Same old Filth. Stupid as always. At least you’re holding your weapon right.”

  “I’ve had lessons.” Edmund flicked his chin toward the pillowcase on the floor. “Open the bag.”

  “Shut up about the bag.”

  “Ed,” Pond said, “remember the troll! Remember what you did to the troll!”

  “You killed that trog?” Gurding snorted. “What did you do, bore it to death with your endless stuttering?”

  “Actually, Pond killed him with a stone; hit him in the head and he fell over.”

  The goblin lunged, slashing the dagger at Edmund’s weapon arm.

  Edmund sprang back and cast his enlargement spell.

  “Forstørre nå.”

  In a flash, the sword doubled in size and pierced deep into Gurding’s left breast.

  Gurding froze, shuddered, and coughed, red blood foaming from his mouth.

  Edmund twisted the blade, then yanked it out of the goblin’s chest. “That’s for Molly, you bastard.”

  Gurding staggered back, clutching his wound. He looked at the blood on his hand and then at Edmund. Sneering, he spun, throwing his dagger toward Pond standing in the doorway behind him.

  “Pond!” Edmund shouted.

  Pond ducked, the dagger skimming off his upraised hand and along his temple. Blood seeped out of a long, thin cut.

  “Pond!”

  Pond flexed his bleeding hand and then touched the side of his head. “I’m fine. It’s just a scratch. Watch out! He’s not dead!”

  Gurding swung his broken scimitar at Edmund’s head, but Edmund easily dodged the swipe, tripping Gurding in the process. The goblin collapsed, coughing.

  “He’s not dead—yet, you mean.” Edmund pointed his enlarged sword at Gurding lying on the floor, blood oozing from his chest, weapon out of reach. “Before you die, I want you to see something.”

  He threw the pillowcase at Gurding.

  Gurding caught it, smiling.

  “Open it,” Edmund said.

  Gurding let out a coughing laugh. “You’ll always remember me, Filth.”

  Edmund struck him across the side of his head. “Open it!”

  Very slowly Gurding untied the knot and opened the bag, the wicked grin never leaving his defiant expression.

  Edmund punched the side of his head again. “Reach in!”

  With glacial movements, Gurding put his hand into the bag. He coughed. More blood trickled down his chin.

  Edmund kicked him in the ribs. “Pull it out.”

  Gurding winked and began to pull the head out by its long, blond hair. When he’d caught sight of the Undead King staring at him, lips moving as though screaming, Gurding started. His gloating disappeared from his smug face. He tried to scrabble away.

  “That’s what I did to your precious king!” Edmund drew his sword back for the final blow. “Now I’m going to make him suffer like he’s never—”

  “Uh, Ed?” Pond leaned against the doorway, blinking and flexing his wounded hand as if he were having difficulty moving it. “I don’t feel—”

  He crumpled to the floor.

  “Pond!”

  Edmund sprang toward him, but Gurding wrapped his arms around Edmund’s legs. Edmund crashed to his knees.

  “Pond!”

  He kicked at Gurding, but the goblin wouldn’t let go.

  “You’ll always remember me, Filth.”

  “Pond!”

  Finally Edmund broke free and crawled to Pond’s side. He was
lying face down on the cold stone. He wasn’t breathing.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  “Pond!” Edmund screamed, shaking the limp body.

  Pond didn’t move.

  He checked the wounds.

  Both the cut across his palm and across his temple were superficial, barely more than a scratch. In fact, the bleeding had already stopped.

  “Pond!”

  He shook him again.

  “What did you do?” Edmund shouted at Gurding.

  The goblin lay gasping for air, wracking coughs punctuated by heaving laughter.

  Edmund grabbed the dagger Gurding had thrown at Pond. It dripped with an oily substance that reeked of moldy mushroom.

  Poison!

  “Damn it!”

  Edmund laid his hands on Pond’s forehead and palm and cast his healing spell.

  “Pond!”

  Pond didn’t move.

  Edmund cast his healing spell over and over until the world grew grey, then went completely black.

  When Edmund came to, Becky was licking his sweaty face. Next to him, Abby knelt over Pond’s body, sobbing.

  “Pond,” Edmund said weakly.

  He reached out and touched his hand. It was cold.

  Abby continued to cry.

  “Pond!”

  Edmund shook his body, but it just jiggled limply.

  In a rage, he seized his sword, staggered to his feet, and kicked Gurding in the gut. But it didn’t matter; the goblin was already dead, pale blue lips upturned in a crooked smile as he stared at the ceiling.

  “Damn you!” He kicked Gurding again and again. “Damn you, you bastard!” And he kept kicking until the goblin’s skull cracked open. “Damn you, damn you, damn you!”

  Then he saw Ellie in the corner babbling to the Undead King’s head, stroking its hair like it was a dog. The Undead King’s lips moved in a frenzy, as if trying to tell her something important before his time ran out.

  Edmund stormed over and ripped the head out of Ellie’s hands. She glared at him, then started to bawl.

  Edmund ran blindly down the secret stairs, bashing the Undead King’s head against the wall. Upon reaching the cavern below the tower, he leapt through the concealing waterfall, heedless of how freezing the water was.