The overturned ship was awash in smoke and song, crammed to bursting with all manner of ruffians. Whalers drank with slavers, sellswords diced with wreckers and all caroused with the bevy of whores who had taken up permanent residence on Skagen. These women were also the local brewers, their bastard children selling spirits out of barrels while they sold their bodies. As the sole purveyors of the two commodities that sailors hold most dear, the whores ruled Skagen from beneath the curved, clinker-built roof of the Wreck. They had slit more than a few throats to establish their dominance and preserved it with a ready willingness to slit more should they be challenged or abused. Fear of the whores' wrath kept the nightly peace in the Wreck. That, and the giantess they employed.
She sat at a table not far from Ingelbert, jesting and drinking with a group of rowdy patrons, her laugh by far the loudest. Her mirthful face was handsome beneath hair the color of embers, cut wildly short. Ingelbert had no reference in the reckoning of a giant's age, but to human standards she appeared just to the youthful side of middle-age. There was experience around her eyes and mouth, the confidence of womanhood still adorned with a spark of girlish mischief. Of all the boisterous distractions within the Wreck, she was the most difficult to ignore and Ingelbert had found his attention pulled away from his book by her laugh more than once over the last hour. He looked at her now, grateful she had not noticed his fit of anger and mistook it for a deeper aggression that needed to be quelled. Indeed, she was enjoying herself so immensely that he wondered how effective a peace-keeper she could actually be.
And then she stood.
When he refrained from slouching Ingelbert was near six and a half feet, but the giantess topped him by at least another two. As she walked to refill her horn, he noted the rippling muscles in her thighs proudly exposed between the slits in her short, fur clout. She had a woman's shape, but there was a firmness complementing every curve. Her bodice was made of cured hide, displaying a visibly strong back between broad, corded shoulders and a midriff etched with hard lines. She bore no weapons, not even a dagger, but her hands were wrapped in thongs of supple, well-used leather from the knuckles to the elbow.
“The Breaker don't service the guests.”
Ingelbert tore his eyes away from the giantess and looked up to find a young whore looking down at him, her painted lips smiling.
“Um,” he tried to return the smile. “I,uh, I am sorry. What, um, what did you say?”
“Ulfrun,” the whore nodded at the giantess, who was now crossing back to her table, quaffing steadily from her frothing horn as she went. “Way you were staring, looked like you were of a mind to ask her for a thrust. Don't.” The words had the sound of a friendly warning, but the whore's face was amused, almost conspiratorial, as if she and Ingelbert shared some private jape. “Me though,” she went on, flashing a knowing look. “I am not so unattainable.”
Ingelbert gave what he hoped was a nervous laugh. He needed to decline, but not offend. In truth, he found everything about the woman repellent. Her lank, dirty hair, her pointed chin and red-rimmed eyes, the way her damp garments clung to her clammy skin. He had always been shy around women, but he suddenly found the instinct eclipsed by repugnance.
“Oh, um, I see,” he said, hoping his feigned bashfulness was not immediately obvious. “Most kind, but, ah, I am afraid I am preoccupied this night.”
The whore glanced down at the open tome for a moment and Ingelbert worried she was the ignorant sort who found knowledge a wondrous curiosity. He needed her to move on, not sit down and ask a torrent of wide-eyed questions.
“Aye, I see that,” she laughed. “Long nose in them pages since you sat. One question?”
“Yes?” Ingelbert replied, convinced it would not be only one.
The whore pointed above his head and laughed again. “How do you keep that from shitting in your ale?”
Ingelbert followed the direction of the woman's finger, craning his neck up and around. Above him, perched on a protruding spar, was Gasten. The colorful patrons of the Wreck had barely glanced up from their revels when he entered with the owl on his shoulder. The bird had quickly flown up to the convenient perch and remained there, taking no interest in the clamor below.
The whore did not stay for an answer, sauntering off before Ingelbert had turned back around, but he found himself staring at the floor, considering her question. He tossed another look up at the owl. There were no signs of droppings, not on the spar, not on the floor. Inspecting his cloak, Ingelbert found none there either. He knew he had never seen the owl eat, but proof of defecation had never occurred to him.
And there it was. An answer.
Ingelbert looked up at Gasten and knew for a certainty he had not been restored to true life. But how? He turned his eyes and his thoughts back to the green book. Huukayat. Owl. He had spoken the word and the bird had flown off of Edric's wrist and come directly to him. It was dead when he spoke the word again. Could he have called it to him as before? Called it from death? Ingelbert had just seen a corpse rise with his own eyes. The dwarf prisoner was stabbed through the heart, yet walked again before Fafnir made a permanent end.
Fafnir.
That the runecaster himself was responsible for everything crossed Ingelbert's mind. He could have revived Gasten and sent him to spy on Ingelbert. From his own mouth, the dwarf admitted to keeping track of those he believed held some value to his cause. Ingelbert remembered how easily Hafr had found him that last, dreadful night in Gipeswic. Could Fafnir have been responsible for the clavigers' deaths as well? And what of the giant's sudden affliction of boils? Hafr had been ready to slay him and that certainly went against the dwarf's designs. Fafnir had rid the giant of his boils during the voyage, but could he not have also been the cause, to slow the brute's attack?
Ingelbert looked down at his hand, opening his fingers wide to gaze at his palm where he had caught the giant's falling blade. There was pain now where there was none before. No wound was visible, but Ingelbert felt as if his hand had been sliced deeply with a dull knife. It was like his mind registered the injury, but his flesh refused to accept it. But even the pain was only a shadow of what he would have suffered if Hafr's sword had struck true. Had the blade been dull it still would have pulped his arm and killed him. By rights he should never have been able to stop such a powerful blow. And why had he reached for sharp steel with a bare hand? Was Fafnir capable of such manipulation? He could turn arrows aside, but could he force a man to catch naked steel?
No answers.
There was nothing but a list of possibilities. The book. The owl. Fafnir. And the one common element that united them. Ingelbert himself. Hafr had called him a wizard just before he struck. Was that the cause? Could Ingelbert be some kind of sorcerer? He thought back to his youth and found nothing in his flawless memory that would point to some dormant propensity for Magic. Surely Parlan Sloane would have sensed it and warned him. The old man was more than a kindly savior of orphans. He possessed great wisdom and close friendships with the Fae. But he was now hundreds of leagues away. No, if Ingelbert wanted answers he had only one source.
Just then, as if summoned, Fafnir entered the Wreck. He was followed closely by Hafr and for the first time that evening the noise in the place perceptibly lessened. Ingelbert was surprised to see that Flyn was not with them. Fafnir scanned the crowded room and quickly settled on Ingelbert. The dwarf spoke a few words to Hafr and the giant made his way to the nearest tapped barrel. Ingelbert quickly slipped the tome into his satchel as the runecaster made his way over. He sat across the table without waiting for an invitation.
“Shall we share a meal?” Fafnir asked pleasantly.
Ingelbert ignored this. “I have no, no intention of traveling with you.”
“You had no intention of coming to Skagen,” the dwarf replied with a smile. “And yet here we sit.”
“Because you and that giant savage brought me here.”
“I am a Chain Maker,” Fafnir returned. “The proper
links must be brought together before they can be made strong. Do you seek my pardon?”
Ingelbert shook his head. “I seek answers.”
“Have I not given them?”
“What you chose to reveal,” Ingelbert countered. “But there is more. I must know all.”
“No man knows all, Master Crane.”
“No man,” Ingelbert agreed, watching Fafnir's face closely. “But what of, of one dwarf?”
The runecaster laughed at that and Ingelbert detected genuine amusement. Still, Fafnir had a gift for deception and Ingelbert did not relax his scrutiny.
“What more can I tell you?” the dwarf asked with good humor.
Ingelbert chose his first question carefully, needing some time to properly measure the wizard's responses. “Is the legend true? About Middangeard and the first Elementals?”
Fafnir considered this for a moment. His smile faded and he nodded shallowly as he thought. When he answered, the laughter was gone from his voice.
“Legends are born from a mating of distant truths and prideful lies. There are few written records remaining from those ancient times. Many were destroyed or taken by the huldu when they abandoned us for Airlann.” A shadow of anger crept across the dwarf's brow and he leaned forward, his voice lowering. “That my people are murdered by their own dead is true. It is true that the cause of this curse is a foul beast from the depths of time. Is the Corpse Eater truly the mother of the coburn race? The augury proclaims it to be so and that is where I place my trust. I must believe! It is the last hope left to the dwarrow. A coburn is the only being that can slay her, this is all that matters in the end.”
“And the other two?” Ingelbert pressed. “The weak man and the great champion? Do they matter so much?”
“Without them the destined coburn will fail,” Fafnir proclaimed with certainty. “That I also believe. We dwarrow have a saying. 'One alone will fall. Two together can be divided. But three united cannot be cloven in twain.'”
“And if the three do not unite? If one refuses to accept his part in the augury?”
“If it is his true fate, then such a choice is impossible.”
“And what of that fate?” Ingelbert asked. “Deglan believes that if we follow you, we will die.”
Fafnir waved his words away with a broad hand. “The gnome is not part of this. His thinking matters not.”
It was Ingelbert who leaned forward now. “It does to me! And if I am truly the man you seek, then it also matters to your precious portent. 'Friend to folk Fae', remember?”
The Chain Maker smiled with appreciation. “I see that you do.”
“That is why you had me translate the augury. You know I forget nothing.”
“The least of your talents, too.”
And there Ingelbert saw it. Another of the answers he sought, yet he had not asked the question. He did not need to, for it was revealed on the dwarf's face. Fafnir was not without guile, but at the mention of Ingelbert's talents his countenance became an open book, written in a language Ingelbert had no difficulty deciphering. Admiration nakedly displayed. Trepidation barely contained. Jealousy poorly hidden. Ingelbert had seen the exact expression countless times during his youth on the faces of his fellow orphans as he ceaselessly surpassed them in study. Parlan Sloan had also worn the same mask on occasion, though the envy was never present. Just pride for a gifted student and that hint of disquiet.
Fafnir had not worked a spell on him, nor bestowed him with any power. The dwarf believed he wielded Magic of his own volition. It was in his eyes. Images of the dying clavigers burst into Ingelbert's mind, sickening him. The burst flesh, the worms, the convulsions as one man bludgeoned his companion to death then did the same to himself. Ingelbert had caused all that. He had killed those men, and they had not died well. Ugly, nightmarish, prolonged death was dealt without lenity.
Ingelbert stared at his hands, once stained only with ink. He needed another explanation, another theory, another culprit. He felt his mouth opening and closing soundlessly, grasping vainly for words as his mind clutched desperately for another answer. It found none.
“Did you not raise the owl to ensnare me?” he asked Fafnir, abandoning all caution.
Fafnir's eyes darted up to where Gasten sat. It was a brief glance, almost reluctant. When the dwarf looked back, his words were slow, each carefully chosen.
“I cannot bring back the dead, Ingelbert Crane. Such power was denied my race when we were split from the huldu. Restoring benevolent life is the province of elf-kind and even among them, only the most puissant know the craft. Irial Ulvyeh and his line could accomplish it, but the huldu king has removed himself from the world and his daughter is long dead. This I am sure you know.”
Again, the certainty of shared knowledge. The runecaster believed him a fellow wizard!
“In truth,” Fafnir continued, “it was lore I feared lost. Until now.”
Ingelbert's eyes had not left his hands, though he could no longer see them. He wept, with no concern for his company or surroundings. He wept without shame, feeling only bitter self-loathing and remorse for the men whose lives he ended.
Fafnir's voice was low, consoling, coming through the hot roar of his tears. “This talent is fresh.”
“I thought it was you,” Ingelbert admitted, his voice thick.
“No. I cannot foist power onto another. Your newfound Magic, whatever its source, is the reason your fate is tied to this quest.”
“It is not me!” Ingelbert reached down and removed the tome from his satchel. He all but threw it at the dwarf, not wanting to touch it. The heavy book landed on the table before the runecaster, who regarded it with puzzlement. “You say you know not the source. There it is before you!”
Fafnir opened the cover with a flick of his thick fingers and frowned at the first page, then the second. He looked up at Ingelbert for a moment, his frown deepening, then returned his attention to the book, flipping to the middle and, a moment later, to the end. He exhaled heavily, fixing Ingelbert with a concerned stare.
“Master Crane, there is nothing here.”
Ingelbert's stomach turned. “What?”
“It is old by human standards,” Fafnir explained as Ingelbert reached forward to snatch the book back. “The runes are elvish, but it is merely a list. A quartermaster's log of supplies. It is nothing.”
Ingelbert combed frantically through the book, turning pages with aggressive flicks of his wrist, eyes scanning feverishly over the symbols. Each was immediately decipherable. Numbers in front of words followed by brief notations. The runes no longer swam before his eyes, no longer stubbornly refusing to give up their meanings as they had for months. Foodstuffs. Pack animals. Arms requisitions. There were even dates for each entry, though he was not familiar enough with the elven measure of time to discern them. It was as the dwarf said. Nothing. Some crumbling war record abandoned in the annals of the Valiant Spur, left over from their early days under elvish command.
“This, uh, this is not how it was!” Ingelbert fought against his own mind, feeling betrayed. “The writing, it, ah, moved. It moved! This is not how it was!”
“An old huldu spell,” Fafnir told him gently. “Used to conceal the contents of the ledger from their enemies. In war, such things are great secrets. The enchantment, however, was unraveling. My contact with the book was enough to dispel what Magic remained.”
The Wreck was alive with voices, all making merry in some fashion. Ingelbert sat with his head hung and his nose running, feeling crushed by the oppressive mirth.
“This cannot be me,” he whispered at last.
Fafnir's large, calloused hand came into view, closing the book and pushing it out of sight. Then the hand retreated and only the dwarf's voice remained.
“Elf Magic does not wither with time. It was you who loosened the spell upon the book. That is a task few mortals can accomplish. Your sorcery is growing, maturing. It will progress quickly now that you are aware of its existence.”
<
br /> Ingelbert looked up at the dwarf, shaking his head. “No. I refuse this.”
“You cannot!” Fafnir's voice turned hard. “The last mortal I recruited to my cause was as ignorant of my true nature as he was his own. As you were of yours. I sensed potential within him, as I did you when we met in the foundry. But your power Ingelbert Crane, your capacity for greatness, drowns what I saw in the other. Padric had venom in his veins, rage, a certain luck and a willingness to die. You. You are limned in the dust of broken kingdoms, emanating the echoes of falling towers. I felt joy surge from you as those men died, exultation, release. To kill one such as the Corpse Eater, we need one who shares her delight in depredation.”
“That is not who I am!” Ingelbert protested. “That is not, not what I want to be.”
“Which is the reason I do not hide it from you,” Fafnir insisted. “I have erred many times in my search for those foretold in the augury. But in my mistakes I have learned that there is a similarity in those I am drawn to, a rough kindred. Had I not found him, Padric would have allowed his rage to overcome him. I saw in his future the jealous murder of a woman who cast him aside. And that is all he would have been, a killer. He would have ended his days dangling from a tree, nothing but a base cutthroat. But he turned from that path to follow me and though he was not the man prophesied, he found a better fate and helped save countless lives rather than selfishly taking one. I tell you, if you embrace your proper destiny you shall avoid a false one, one which will surely make you the despoiler you wish not to be. I need who you are, but I fear what you will become. You speak of refusing your part in this. Do so and you will be swallowed by the evil born of great might. Come with me! Help me banish a monster from this world and I swear to you, you will not become one yourself.”
The Errantry of Bantam Flyn Page 29
