“A pretty song, but sorrowful,” Fisk said.
“I’m glad you came out to talk to me. I was wondering about the caravan, my friends Yevele and Ingrge.”
“The elf and the warrior-woman, ” Fisk said. “And the two big men who caused so much trouble for you.”
“Yes, them. Milo Jagon and Naile Fangtooth.”
“I’ve heard nothing about the caravan and your comrades. But I will be leaving in the morning to learn its progress, and to perhaps converse with the Glothorio priests in their midst.”
The surprise on Wymarc’s face was evident even in the darkness. “They’ve an eight-day lead.”
“I travel rather quickly." Fisk stepped closer and reached into the folds of his robe. “Before I go, Wymarc, I’d like to hear the second verse again, of that song about the boy named Danny.’’
Wymarc shook his head. "I’m done singing tonight.” For a moment he brightened, thinking to offer up the song in exchange for some money. Priests of Glothorio the Coin Gatherer likely had money in their pockets. But before he could propose the notion, he saw Fisk draw a wavy bladed knife from a fold in the black robes.
“What?"
“I said, sing about the boy,” Fisk repeated.
“Sing,” Wymarc said nervously, his breath catching in his throat. A priest with a knife? “Sure, I’ll sing. No need to threaten me. Put the knife away, Fisk, and I’ll sing for you.”
Fisk came closer still, and made no move to replace the knife. He smiled, the faint starlight showing a row of perfect teeth.
Wymarc took a step back, and then another, intending to retrace his path and go inside the kitchen, where only the cook wielded a knife. Then suddenly he stumbled over a low crate of garbage. He fell backward, the handle snapping off his lute. Before he could get to his feet, Fisk was on him, moving surprisingly fast and silent.
The priest held the wavy blade to Wymarc's neck. “Sing for me,” he hissed.
Wymarc swallowed hard, finding that his throat was tight, his mouth becoming dry as sand. "I . . .”
“Sing, skald. That verse from the Danny song."
Wymarc closed his eyes and worked up some saliva.
“I’ll not tell you again, skald. Sing.”
Wymarc’s fingers twitched nervously, clawing at the alley ground. His chest heaved with fear.
But when ye come, and all the flowers are dying,
The words caught a little, and his perfect voice sounded less-than-perfect now, a frightened tremor to it.
If I am dead, as dead I well may be,
Ye’ll come and find the place where I am lying,
And kneel and say an Ave there for me,
Wymarc stopped, but Fisk pressed the blade against his throat, and he felt a hotness, knew he’d been cut.
“Go on.”
And I shall hear, though soft you tread above me,
And all my grave will warmer, sweeter be,
For you will bend and tell me that you love me,
And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me!
Fisk leaned back, and Wymarc made a move to rise, thinking he’d satisfied the priest. Thoughts flashed through the bard’s mind. This was a holy man! A priest! How could a holy man threaten him? Unless he wasn’t a holy man. And if he wasn't . . . what about Yevele, Ingrge, Milo, and Naile?
“Who are you?” Wymarc demanded.
“Fisk Lockwood,” came the reply. Then the priest, who seemed impossibly strong for his size, shoved Wymarc hard against the ground, splintering the rest of the lute, the wood biting into the bard ’s back. In one fast motion, the priest drew the blade across Wymarc’s throat.
Fisk stood and looked around, making sure the noise of the song and his deed had not attracted attention. But the alley was dark and empty, and so he was satisfied.
“Pity,” he said in a hush. “Your voice was remarkable. But it was not worth as much as the coins I was paid to silence it.”
Fisk cleaned the blade on Wymarc’s tight tunic, and took the coins from the dead skald’s pocket. Then he kicked Wymarc s corpse, and, humming “Danny Boy,” melted into the shadows.
Ingrge' s Unease
Ingrge cherished the time alone. It gave him time to think, mostly to remember his life in Florida. He’d been alone there, no steady girl, no relatives within four hundred miles to visit or to be visited by, no neighbors he was especially fond of. It wasn’t that he was a loner, he certainly enjoyed the company of Yevele, Naile, and Milo, but in Florida he often was on the air at night, and he slept well into the day. His schedule hadn’t allowed him the luxury of close friends. Just the luxury of enjoying the beach.
The elf scouted nearly a mile ahead of the caravan this early morning, the ninth day of the journey. Frost was heavy on the tall grass that lined the trail, and his breath puffed away from his face and mingled with the misty air. The weather was too cold for him, the chill breeze seeping through the material in his leggings and stinging his skin.
By God, he missed Daytona Beach, where it occasionally frosted and threatened the citrus crop. But those frigid days were few, sometimes years apart. He’d moved to Daytona Beach to escape the Midwest winters; his scant relatives, cousins and uncles and aunts, clung to the cool climes of Illinois and Indiana. Brrrrrrr. And until this venture, he’d managed to avoid truly cold weather in this medieval world. They’d traveled through a swamp, across a desert, up the side of a mountain—where it was cold. But he didn’t remember it being thid cold, and certainly not for this many days in a row. And now they were traveling farther north, at a time when the temperature would be doing nothing but dropping. Brrrrrrr indeed.
"Good thing Gulth went south to the swamp," Ingrge mused. “He’d not tolerate this well. And it’s going to get worse. 1 can feel it.” The elf could tell an early winter was coming, as last night before falling asleep, he saw a few flakes of snow. They didn't stick long, but it was enough to make him yearn tor walking forty-two steps to the beach, fifty-seven until his toes teased the sea. He suddenly and very desperately tried to push Florida to the back of his mind. Florida didn’t exist here, and there were no beaches in his immediate future, only this bleak land. Worse, there was no promise he’d ever get back home. Whiskey River might never sign on for another evening shift. He might never hear another late-night request for Little Jimmy Dickens or Dolly Parton, might never hear the soulful sound of a steel guitar. Forty-two steps. Fifty-seven to the sea.
Did his relatives know he was gone? Was the landlord banging on his door for rent? The bosses at the station, had they replaced him? Was he a missing person? Were the cops looking for him? Or had no one noticed he was gone? How long had he been gone? Forty-two steps.
Again he tried not to picture Florida. But his efforts were unsuccessful. The sky would be a clear, brilliant blue, the air hot. The humidity would be so high that the sweat would run down his face in streams as thick as night crawlers. There might be a few clouds, low on the horizon and touching an ocean that would be glimmering and dark and electric with motion. There would be gentle swells with foam the color of eggshells, and gulls dipping low looking for food. The sound of the waves and the gulls, the feel of the sand beneath his feet was heavenly. Everything was so warm and nearly perfect.
Everything here was so cold.
“I have friends here. Make the best of this,” he said. “Find the good in this place.”
For a while, that hadn't been too hard. This medieval land was fresh and unpolluted and incredible to take in. Just when they’d arrived at the city, a little more than two weeks ago, the colors on the trees were amazing, more brilliant than anything Ingrge had seen at home — even when he had lived for a time in St. Louis. Vibrant reds and oranges, yellows so bright they practically glowed, rich velvety browns. Late-blooming wildflowers scented the air, and a swollen, fast-moving stream gurgled pleasantly. The elf’s senses were teased and treated, and he found himself lingering along the road then, forcing his companions to adopt a much slower pace so he
could relish his surroundings.
How fast the countryside and the trees had changed in this short time!
Now most of the trees were bare, and the damp, fallen leaves were filling the air with a fusty, moldering scent. Not a single bloom from a wildflower remained, and the only sounds were the infrequent caws of crows and the faint clicking the branches made as the wind nudged them together. The oaks had retained their leaves, of course, but they were curled and dusty-brown, everything looking dismal. The sun hadn’t appeared yesterday, the sky cloudy-gray like this morning. Likely Ingrge wouldn’t see the sun today either.
“No.” Ingrge swore he saw a flake floating down. His tunic was wool and warm, but not warm enough as far as he was concerned. He rattled off a string of curse words in the elvish tongue and watched another flake drift in the slight breeze, held his hands under his armpits. Odd that he knew the complex, lyrical elven language, that he knew dll these nature skills. Odd that he could shoot an arrow more than five hundred feet with an astounding degree of accuracy. Odd that he knew how to use the thin-bladed sword at his side. But he did know all of those things — and more.
His elven form could see and hear this world far better than his human senses could have managed. His old, Florida eyes likely wouldn’t have spotted the snowflakes high against the pale sky, and they wouldn’t have noticed details like a red-tailed hawk toward the top of a big oak and all but invisible because of concealing clumps of leaves. They wouldn't have detected a slight motion in a patch of dead weeds beneath that tree. A mouse or a ground squirrel, as the breeze was not responsible for the erratic movement. A moment more and the hawk dove from his perch, feathered lightning streaking down to grab a ground squirrel in his talons and then race to the sky.
The caravan left its fifth village yesterday afternoon, Ludlow Jade not faring so well there, as it was a particularly poor community, and only one family bought a blanket. However, the merchant purchased a dozen casks of mulled wine the villagers produced, and he seemed pleased on that account.
The wagons would reach the next stop before nightfall, if the map Ingrge got a look at was accurate. So far it had proven reasonably true. The trail they were following was wide and relatively even, though there were depressions from wagon wheels. It would wend its way through a section of light woods, then would dip into a valley. The breeze would be cut there, Ingrge hoped. There were places where the grass was tamped down, leading away from the main trail; these looked like lesser-used paths, perhaps leading to farms.
He knelt on the trail. The earth was hard for the most part, but it was loose at the edges against the grass, and this is where he concentrated. It was not yet frozen, though that would be starting soon, and so his keen elven eyes noted recent depressions. A boot heel? There wasn’t a full impression of a foot, but that’s what it looked like. Ingrge s fingers brushed at the dirt and felt the bottom of the depression, the grains of dirt registering against his sensitive skin.
Definitely a boot heel, made by a slight man with a narrow foot. Another a short distance away, the same man. Apparently the man walked back and forth across the trail, and apparently he worked to cover his tracks. Why?
Ingrge moved off the trail, with considerable scrutiny finding another track, and then another. The ones around them had been covered up, expertly so, only a few missed. A woodsman, perhaps. Whoever it was, they didn’t want their presence known, and that raised the hairs on the back of Ingrge’s neck. The tracks weren’t made this morning, but they were likely made last night. Was someone searching for something? The caravan? He ranged a little farther on both sides of the trail, but found no other tracks.
Bothered by the prints, but unable to do anything about it, Ingrge jogged back to the caravan.
Yevele drove the fourth of Ludlow Jade’s wagons, which was near the end of the caravan. Only two wagons were behind her, these belonging to a cheesemaker, who had hired two guards, these being retired soldiers on the far side of middle age. She got along with them well enough, admired their long swords and crossbows, and she occasionally glanced around the side of her wagon, looking to the other wagons and the guards, waving to them, and studying the trail behind them when it curved and she could catch a glimpse of it. There’d been no hint of bandits, for which she was grateful. There was only the trail, stopping in villages, and sitting on this uncomfortable wooden bench-seat. She was bored.
She looked ahead and to the right, where Naile walked alongside the third of Ludlow Jade’s wagons, which was driven by one of the merchant’s long-time guards. Milo was to the left and near the second wagon, the one with the canvas roof. Another guard was assigned the first wagon, the largest of the merchant’s, and no doubt carrying the most valuable merchandise.
Yevele speculated that Ludlow Jade was brokering something other than blankets and rugs . . . why else make arrangements for a half-dozen sellswords to protect the goods. Seemed to her that the protection, including Milo and Naile’s bail, was more costly than what he professed to be selling. But whatever that other something might be was not her business, she decided.
“I’d give you a copper piece for your thoughts ... if I had one." Naile had drifted back and was looking up at her. “You’re staring at something far beyond the back of that wagon.” Naile gestured to Ludlow Jade’s third wagon.
Yevele shrugged. “Just thinking.”
“I’m a good listener."
Her eyes simmered with ire, and something dark passed across her face.
“Yevele, something on your mind? ” Naile’s voice was deep and not unpleasant. Neither was he unpleasant to look at this morning. His swollen eye had almost completely healed now, the last trace of his cuts and bruises were gone, and he was keeping his face clean-shaven and his hair tied at the back of his head.
“Yes,” she said after a moment. “All of this is on my mind.” She held the reins with one hand and gestured to her wagon, the wagon in front of her, to Naile, and to Milo, who was walking slower and drifting back to overhear the conversation.
Naile waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. He had to prod her. “Guarding a blanket peddler? This is bothering you?”
Her eyes narrowed. “This world, our predicament. That’s what is bothering me. The fight you and Milo started . . . that you started. You threw the first punch.”
“I sort of did.” Naile cast his eyes to the ground, then looked up at her. Yevele’s face was hard, her jaw clenched. He noticed that the knuckles of the hand that gripped the reins were white, she was squeezing her fist so tight. “You’ve been stewing about the fight.”
“I suppose you could call it that.” She let a breath whistle out between her teeth. “You brought all of this upon us, Naile. It’s going to be harder for us to look for a way home now, since we’ve been shackled to this caravan. A month there, a month back to the city to find Wymarc, and hopefully Deav Dyne . . . two months if we’re lucky and there are no complications. Two months out of our medieval lives.” She sucked in the chill air, her face reddening from her irritation and her boredom. “And we’re working for nothing because you and Milo caused so much damage. A fight you started, Naile, by throwing the first drunken punch."
He thought to argue with her for a moment, as he truly hadn’t punched that man in the Golden Tankard tavern, just accidentally knocked him down. But he stayed silent and continued to stare at her face. It had softened just a little, and her eyes had brightened almost imperceptibly. His own face relaxed.
"We’ve not a coin,” she continued. “We’re fed by Ludlow Jade, clothed by Ludlow Jade, at the mercy of Ludlow Jade. At least Wymarc has been spared this. He’s warm and safe in the city, and singing. Doing something he enjoys.”
Milo was indeed eavesdropping, hoping Yevele and Naile either wouldn’t notice or wouldn’t care. He glanced over his shoulder and stopped, just so he could watch them. Then he started walking at the caravan’s pace again.
He hadn’t liked what he’d seen. Sure, Naile and Yevele were ar
guing — or to be precise Yevele was uttering all the angry words. But her expression no longer matched those words, and that concerned him. He’d seen her watching Naile on and off these past many days, and Naile returning the looks.
Milo, himself, had fancied the warrior-woman, but had kept his distance and instead concentrated on whatever matter was at hand . . . crossing the swamp, the desert, climbing into the mountains, delving into Quag Keep . . . trying to get home.
“It’s wrong,” he said, thinking that something might be developing between the two. "He’s not human. Not wholly. Even though he looks that way.” Milo considered Naile confrontational and quick to lose his temper. Certainly not good-looking. "And he’s a lawyer.” Milo shuddered at his thoughts. “It’s just wrong.”
He glanced down at the bracelet on his wrist, wondering why the dice hadn’t spun, and why the whole affair hadn’t tugged him to a new destination. It had tugged him and the others before—across a stretch of swamp, to a dragon’s lair, to Quag Keep. Maybe the bracelet was broken. He tried to snap the links again, and found them as strong as ever. Then he studied his rings. He wore two, neither of which would come off, and both of which he knew to be enchanted. The one, set with a large dark stone, some sort of gray crystal, had served as a map of sorts, when they were trying to reach
Quag Keep. It was dull and blank now. The other? It was an oblong filmy green stone, across which in no discernable pattern ran red veins and dots. He hadn’t a clue what it did. And neither of the rings were doing anything to make Yevele give him the looks she was giving Naile.
“Wrong."
Milo picked up his pace and returned to his station at the side of the second wagon. He scanned the countryside to the west, and looked up to the bench seat, where Zechial was perched. The merchant’s son nodded to Milo, then Milo looked east again. He saw In-grge jog past, the elf not acknowledging his wave and continuing south.
“Wrong,” Milo repeated.
Ingrge decided to scout behind the caravan for a few hours, giving up on the mysterious tracks ahead. He was trying to convince himself that the tracks were nothing, and that the wind and blowing clumps of weeds had been responsible for covering them. But he wasn’t being convinced enough.
Greyhawk - [Quag Keep 02] - Return to Quag Keep Page 6
