Wandering Lark

by Laura J Underwood

  “Make it two and a half each, and I’ll throw in a lantern or two and some dried meat and hard cheese,” the landlord said. “In my experience, long legs can’t see in the dark, and they get hungry after a short time.”

  “That’s because our eyes are above our knees,” Fenelon said.

  The silence that fell was as frightening as a tomb. Gareth wanted desperately to punch Fenelon in the face for that remark, but there was nothing to be done for it now.

  “In that case,” the landlord said darkly. “Five gold sgillinns a man or the way is barred.”

  Hobbler turned and looked helplessly at Gareth.

  “The price is fair, considering the insult my son laid unfairly on you and your kindred, sir,” Gareth said, and for good measure, he lashed out and cuffed Fenelon up the back of the head.

  “Hey!” Fenelon snarled and looked as though he wanted to retaliate. “That hurt!”

  “As it was meant to,” Gareth said. Fenelon set his mouth in a straight line, but he held his temper in check.

  The landlord nodded, looking satisfied now. Gareth reached into his belt pouch and dealt out the gold sgillinns, counting them one at a time just so Fenelon could see what his tongue had cost them. The landlord snatched the coins up and slid them into a pouch under his dirty apron. He then turned and took a massive set of keys off a hook behind his bar and started for a doorway.

  “Move lively, long legs,” he said. “I haven’t all day.”

  Gareth pushed Fenelon after the landlord whom Hobbler was already following through the door. They had to duck to enter the area, and there were stairs and a low ceiling. To make matters worse, the landlord took his time with the descent. Gareth had a feeling the landlord was making certain they felt every step in their backs and necks.

  Thank you so much, my son, he groused inwardly.

  At length, they reached the bottom, and there was a cellar with a higher ceiling, and shelves piled and stocked with all manner of goods and provisions. The landlord looked at none of these, but walked straight past a row of ale kegs and wine casks and stopped at an iron door. He tried several of the keys before finding the one that would turn in the massive lock. When it did, he stepped back and gestured to the door.

  “I hope you know where you’re going,” the landlord said to Hobbler, ignoring the men. “There’s a chasm in one of the shafts that broke open about twenty years ago, and none has gone down to bridge it.”

  Hobbler nodded and seized the door. He gave it a tug and as it opened, it creaked like an old iron box that had not had its hinges oiled in a long time.

  “Oh and there’s been a bit of trouble in Lefty’s Cave,” the landlord added. “Some of the miners have seen trow tracks.”

  Hobbler grimaced. “I don’t think we’ll be going to Lefty’s Cave,” he said. “It’s the road into the Stone Forest for us...”

  The landlord grunted. “You’re not leading them to the pass, are you?” he asked. “Men are not welcome there...”

  “These are not men,” Hobbler said. “They’re mageborn.”

  The landlord eyed Gareth and Fenelon. “They’re fools,” he said and shook his head, and started to put a hand to the door to shut it again. “It’s forbidden to take men to Baldoran’s Pass.”

  “But we must go there,” Gareth said, stepping forward in hopes of stopping the landlord from locking the door. He shot a look at Fenelon. “It’s a matter of life and death.”

  “It will be a matter of death only,” the landlord snarled. “Yours, if you persist. I will give you back your gold. I will give you free rooms for the night. But you cannot go to the pass.”

  Gareth leaned down to meet the Dvergar’s one eye. “You are quite old, are you not?” he asked.

  “I walked the pass when men fled the ice of the Great Cataclysm,” the landlord said. “I was among those the Hidden Folk cursed for bringing the Haxons through the Summerland to escape the harsh land their own became. I lost this eye to a Fire Sword when one of the Hidden Folk attacked us for tarrying too long. I was charged that if I wished to live a long life, I would never allow men to enter the Pass of Baldoran.”

  “Look,” Gareth said. “I know what lies at the end of the long walk. I know that this Summerland of which you speak is the home of the Aelfyn of ancient days, and that they are kin to the Hidden Folk and the Old Ones. I also know that a great danger has entered that land through an ancient walking stone, and that if I and my son do not find that great danger, then the last Cataclysm will seem a summer day compared to the next...”

  “And who are you that you should be allowed to go where man is forbidden,” the landlord asked.

  “I am Gareth Greenfyn of Ard-Taebh,” Gareth said. “And I am sworn to keep the Balance of All Things from being sundered by the rebirth of the Dark Mother. And if I do not enter Baldoran’s Pass, I will not be able to fulfill that vow.”

  “Greenfyn.” The landlord took a deep breath. “Your line is nearly as ancient as my own.”

  “So I am told,” Gareth said.

  The landlord looked thoughtful. Then he took his hand off the door and stepped back. “Go, before I change my mind,” he said. “The Mother of Shadows is not an opponent I would want to face again. Once was enough.”

  “You were there?” Gareth asked.

  The old Dvergar nodded. “I saw the fall of the Shadow Lords,” he said. “I fought at the side of the Hammer Maid who fought the dark gods of the old days.”

  “What is your name?”

  The old Dvergar smiled. “In my youth...I was called Hamlin Gobbler. But the Hammer Maid who was my friend did call me Ham.”

  “Well met, Master Gobbler,” Gareth said and extended his hand. “When I return, you and I must share a tankard or two of ale and have a long talk, for I have often wished I could meet someone who knows of this Hammer Maid.”

  “If the Hidden Folk let you live, I will gladly share my tale and that ale,” the landlord said and took the hand and shook it hard. “You’re buying, of course.”

  “The best your house has to offer,” Gareth said.

  The old Dvergar nodded. “That’s the expensive stuff,” he said. He jerked his head towards the door. “Go on...take a couple of them lanterns and some dried meat while you’re at it. You’ll need to eat to keep up your strength, for the way you take is long.”

  Gareth nodded. Hobbler quickly helped himself to some of the stores, passing two lanterns and a couple of packets of meat to Fenelon in the process.

  “And teach your son to mind his tongue, while you’re at it,” Ham added. “Elsewise, the Hidden Folk will have his head.”

  Gareth glanced at Fenelon and nodded. “I guess they’ll have to take it,” he said.

  Ham laughed. Hobbler entered the caverns, followed by Fenelon, then Gareth.

  Past the door was a downward slope of rock, heading into the bowels of the earth. And the passage was high enough that they could stand upright, much to Gareth’s relief.

  He took a deep breath and realized that he was under scrutiny.

  “Well?” Gareth asked, meeting Fenelon’s stare.

  “There is so much about you I do not know, Father,” Fenelon said.

  “That’s because you’re too busy living your own life to ask, Fenelon,” Gareth said. He took one of the lanterns and packets of meat from his son. Hobbler was already moving down the slope, raising and lowering his lantern to study their path.

  Fenelon trailed behind. “I’ll have to ask more, then,” he said aloud.

  Gareth smiled. That would be a change.

  FIFTY-SIX

  Etienne hated to admit it, but she was rather enjoying not teaching apprentices the most intricate aspects of magic or attending to Council affairs. For the last few days, she relished in a freedom she had not known since her youth. She had used her time well to introduce Wendon and Shona to the beauties and wonders of Blue Oak.

  “So why do Ross-Mhorians live in trees?” Wendon asked as he finished off the last bite of
his acorn sweet bun and licked the sticky parts off his fingers.

  They were sitting on the balcony outside their room at the inn. Etienne had chosen one of the better ones, for she felt the need to have a rare luxury. To her surprise, Shona and Wendon were both adjusting quite nicely to a life off the ground. Even now, they claimed the seats closest to the railing and peered out at the grand vista as though one of the tree-born. Etienne preferred to sit back from the edge just enough to keep her safe from an attack of vertigo. She had forgotten just how high parts of Blue Oak could be.

  “There are several theories still argued to this day,” she said. “The first is that in the ancient days when the forests of Ross-Mhor were overrun by wicked large beasts, the citizens took to the highest trees as sanctuary. The second theory states that all this was already here when the first humans came, leaving them to believe that the original tree dwellings might have been the homes of Old Ones. The third tells the tale of either a great mage or an Old One who in the age before the Great Cataclysm took it upon himself to try and end a long draught by calling water from the rivers to our west. Alas, his efforts proved a little over zealous, and he flooded all the lands and forced the denizens to take refuge in the trees to keep from drowning...”

  “Foolish mage,” Wendon said. “That almost sounds like something Fenelon would do...”

  Etienne smiled. The subject of Fenelon only came up when Wendon felt the need to ridicule him these days, not that she entirely blamed the young man.

  “You’re so right,” she said. “It does sound like one of his experiments, but it was long before his time. Now the forth theory involves a rather large lake in the middle of the Deep Forest Lands. The lake was once down in a valley, and one year after a great rainfall, the lake began to swell and take over its own banks. It all happened so fast, the villagers who lived in the valley were forced to clamber up into the great trees that filled the valley. They supposedly took everything they could carry with them up into the trees to wait for the waters to recede, but all it did was rain and rain and more water came, and the lake showed no sign of returning to the boundaries of its shores. So the folks forced into the trees settled in, building platforms and tending the livestock they were able to rescue. Eventually, they came to live off the bounty of fish in the lake and the acorns from the trees. And when the waters did finally retreat, they were so used to their trees dwellings they decided they would never live on the ground again.”

  “So which tale is the true one?” Shona asked.

  Etienne shrugged. “No one really knows,” she said. “The trees of this land have always been huge, and the earliest settlers may have found so little space on the ground, they were forced to build up in the trees themselves, especially since cutting them would have been nearly impossible. Woodcutters always said the trees were so thick that a man would wear out ten axes before he made a mark in the first layer of bark. And then there is the belief that many of these trees possess souls.”

  Wendon frowned as though trying to figure out whether or not she was pulling his leg. “Souls? In trees?”

  “In Keltora, we believe in spirits that live within trees and keep them alive,” Shona said, “but I have never heard of a tree having a soul, though when I was little, they spoke of auld man willow walking as he willed...”

  “Fenelon tells me there are ancient texts in the library at Dun Gealach that tell of trees that could uproot and move at will, and not just willows. They were called Forest Walkers for they generally stayed among the trees of the forest in which they were born. Some were recorded as being quite huge in size, and it was said that some were good and some were evil.”

  “So what happened to them?” Wendon asked.

  Etienne shrugged. “I suppose after the Great Cataclysm, they all took root and stopped walking,” she said. “The texts in question were but fragments nearly as old as that demon skin poor Alaric was able to read.”

  “How do you know?” Wendon asked.

  “That’s how Fenelon and I first met,” she said with a smile. “He was studying the fragments in hopes of finding spells on them, and he came across the Haxon runes. He knew I came from Ross-Mhor and someone mentioned that I could read old runes, so he copied them and brought them to me and asked for a translation.”

  “What did the fragments say?” Wendon asked.

  “Many things, actually. It was apparently an account of one of the dvergar who traveled from Haxony with the Haxons that came to Ross-Mhor after the Great Cataclysm, and it was recorded by his adopted son who was supposedly one of the Aelfyr.”

  “Aelfyr?” Shona said.

  “One of the Hidden Folk,” Etienne explained. “They were called Aelfyr in their own tongue, and they too lived in Haxony before the Great Cataclysm. They were a mysterious people, much like our own Old Ones, but it was said that unlike the Old Ones, they had little to do with humans. In fact, the idea of a Dvergar adopting an Aelfyr seems a little preposterous to me, for the legends of my ancestors had it that they were not on the best of terms. They went to war almost as often as the clans of Keltora.”

  Shona laughed. Etienne smiled and glanced at Wendon. He was frowning off at the horizon.

  “Is something wrong, Wendon?” Etienne asked.

  He glanced over the rail once more, then drew back and looked towards the balcony door.

  “We need to leave,” he said.

  “What?” Shona said. “Leave now?”

  “Why?” Etienne asked.

  Wendon rose from his chair, looking frantically towards the entrance to their chambers. It could barely be seen from the balcony.

  “Please, go now before it’s too late. He rushed towards the doorway into the chambers. “I’ll try and hold him off as long as I can...”

  “Who?” Etienne asked.

  Before he could answer, Etienne heard the thunder of a fist on the chamber’s outer door. Her heart leapt into her throat before she even heard the call.

  “Etienne Savala! In the name of the High Mage of Dun Gealach, I order you to open this door!”

  “Oh, horns!” she hissed. That was Lorymer’s voice. She quickly launched herself out of her chair, determined to stop Wendon from playing the hero and being left behind. Shona followed, rushing into the sleeping quarters to snatch up a few necessities.

  Wendon began to draw essence from the world, and used it to feed the spell he muttered to harden the air before the door. He apparently hoped that such a spell would delay Lorymer and company from breaking in. Etienne was not so sure it would work that well. Still, it if kept them at bay long enough for her to conjure a gate elsewhere... She seized up a satchel and a few items while stretching mage senses in search of the essence she needed to feed her own spell...

  Shona’s startled cry reminded Etienne of the gulls that followed the river into Caer Keltora. She turned towards the sound and cursed at the sight of mageborn warriors surging in from the balcony. How? One of them had seized Shona and was pushing her against the wall to restrain her.

  “Here now!” Etienne said, rushing towards the lass, ignoring the ones who passed her to interrupt Wendon’s spell.

  But she stopped in her tracks when she saw a familiar sight. It was that damned flying platform! She spent a silent curse on Fenelon for creating the thing that now hovered at the edge of the balcony. Standing on the platform like a captain aboard a fine ship, his robes flapping in the wind, was none other than Turlough himself.

  The temptation to cast lightning at the platform was strong, but the sense that a number of mage bolt spells were aimed in her direction quelled that thought. With a sigh, Etienne let her satchel and cloak fall to the floor. Already, the door had been opened, and more mageborn guards led by Lorymer were pouring into the chamber.

  Did he bring an entire army?

  One of the mageborn on the platform lowered a small set of stairs where the rail was open. Turlough stepped down onto the balcony. His face was a mask of triumph as he walked across the balcony and in
to the chamber. There, he stopped before Etienne.

  “My dear, it is so good to see you again,” he said. “I must say that you and your companions have led me on quite a merry chase what with casting this distraction of a spell and that. But as you can see, your efforts were in vain.”

  Etienne sighed. She was not so sure she could return his first sentiment in any fashion, and the latter was clearly meant to scold her into submission. She kept her tongue and held out her wrists for the manacles, wondering who was carrying the gags.

  Turlough merely took gentle hold of her hands and looked into her eyes.

  “Where is Fenelon?” he asked.

  “He is not here,” she said.

  “Ah, but he was at some point along the way. I have already spoken to a landlord at one of the upper inns who remembers him leaving in the company of his father and a Dvergar. You wouldn’t happen to know where they might be at the moment, would you?”

  Etienne shook her head. In that, she was being honest.

  “Pity,” Turlough said. “Of course, we know that he will probably be coming back this way to join you...that was the message he sent you, was it not?”

  Etienne clamped her mouth shut in a tight line and decided that she now meant every ill word she had previously spoken of Bran Alden.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Turlough said. He shot a look at Shona. “I see your apprentice is up and about and looking well again. Sad that you have to go and waste your skills for one young mageborn and his demon.”

  “I have wasted nothing,” Etienne said. “And you are wasting your time. Take us back to Dun Gealach and throw us all in the tower, since that is your aim. Because if you do not lock me away, I will just make every effort to escape again.”

  Turlough looked briefly as though he might strike her for such insolence. Instead, he shook his head. “Oh, no, my dear Etienne. I will not be returning to Dun Gealach until I have a complete set of conspirators. So we will make ourselves comfortable and wait for Fenelon to return with his father. With luck, they will bring young Alaric as well, and then I will be able to do what I deemed necessary long ago.”