Ingrge’s eyes narrowed.
“And, yeah, I’ve stolen from some people in this world. Not a lot. Three or four times. I was hungry, like I am now. Had to eat.”
"We ate this morning, the hare I killed.” Ingrge crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I’ll find something else tomorrow morning. I’ll not hunt in this rain. Too difficult.”
Berthold nodded. "Should’ve thought to take something from the caravan before we left, a few supplies.”
"Stealing,” Ingrge tsked. "Like you’re used to stealing.”
"I needed clothes. Broke into one of those little homes only once. For clothes. You do what you have to, you know.”
“To survive,” Yevele said. “You do anything to survive.” She was looking out the cave mouth again, her eyes following small dark shapes that were moving slowly across a swath of mud, illuminated by a lantern that must have been shielded from the rain somehow.
“Goblins," Ingrge whispered. “A hunting party caught in this weather.”
"Hopefully,” Yevele said. She kept her voice low, too. "Hopefully hunting food and not hunting us. Looks like maybe two dozen.” Berthold tapped his fingers on his knee. “I can’t think why goblins would hunt us. No reason.”
“I can’t think why undead would spring up out of the ground and go after the caravan,” Yevele returned. Her eyes were daggers, aimed at the line of goblins. Her hand was on the pommel of her sword.
“You had bracelets on then,” Berthold continued. “Whatever force wants to stop us from freeing the wizard ... I know in my heart something is trying to stop us . . . could track you by the bracelets.
I’m certain it tracked Keth and I and the others. Maybe that’s why the undead came, because of your bracelets. But without the bracelets — ’’
Ingrge made a hissing sound. “But Naile still has a bracelet. Milo too.”
Berthold shrugged. “So? They won’t be going near Quag Keep, and won’t tip anyone off that we’re getting close to the wizard.”
"So this force can track them, you claim. Naile and Milo?” Another shrug.
Yevele continued to watch the goblins, their forms growing smaller as they moved away, the deepening shadows swallowing them. “You do what you have to. Isn’t that right Bert? To survive?” She slipped out the cave entrance, and headed off through the downpour, mindless of the weather and the darkness.
Ingrge’s eyes were narrow slits. "A diversion? A distraction? Is that what Milo and Naile are to you? Let the . . . whatever it is, whoever it is . . . track them by their bracelets while we venture safely to Quag Keep?”
Berthold followed Yevele, slipping and sliding on the wet rocks and falling. “They’re not a diversion, they’re caravan guards,” he replied, as he got to his feet and tried to wipe the mud from his leggings. “I simply forgot to take their bracelets off. An oversight.”
The elf s voice was laced with anger: “We could go back to the caravan, and have you remove those bracelets. But we’re three days to the southeast, and they’re three days to the north. A week to catch up, if we’re lucky. And if something is after them, tracking them with the bracelets, we could be too late. Our trip wasted.”
“They’re strong men, those two,” Berthold said. “They could well defeat whatever the fates throw at them.” He paused: “I really did forget to pry loose their bracelets.”
"Yeah, I’m sure you forgot.” Ingrge let Yevele and Berthold get a few dozen yards ahead, then he started after them, trying to peer through the rain and find a trace of the goblins or any other threat.
I’m sure you did.”
ELEVEN
Dark Men
Pick a pinky petal for your papa’s pride.
Beg a burning blossom for your budding bride.
But when ye come, and all the flowers are dying,
If I am dead, as dead I well may be,
Ye’ll come and find the place where I am lying. . . .
The cold didn’t bother Fisk Lockwood. He barely registered the night’s icy breeze against his face as he softly sang. His hood was back, sleeves pulled up above his elbows, cloak billowing behind him as he sat astride a big mare of blackest black. The horse snorted, her gray breath fanning up from her nostrils like smoke seeping from a dying fire.
“Ah, sweet Keesh,” Fisk said, as he stroked the horse’s neck. "The pipes, the pipes are calling. From glen to glen, and down this very mountainside.” He slipped from the horse’s back and glided to a rocky ledge and looked down.
They were on a tall hill north of the city. From his lofty vantage, Fisk could see the small farms that spread across the plains below, and in the distance on a riverbank, marked by the flickering lights of torches and lanterns, he spotted a tiny village of fishermen. He knew the name of the place once, but it was an inconsequential piece of information, and so he’d discarded it.
It was early evening, and Fisk imagined that families were finishing meals and chores and preparing for bed: a droll existence. Women might be singing to their helpless, parasitic babes. Men might be trying unsuccessfully to scrub the dirt of the fields out of the cracks in their fingertips.
He looked west, to the forest, where the wolves were reported to hunt in large packs. Maybe he had more in common with them than with the people below. He was cunning like them, vicious when he needed to be, and, yes, he did prey upon the weak and slow. Now he held his head high to listen, hoping to hear the howl of a wolf, instead picking up only the wind rustling the tall dead grass around the mare’s hooves. It sounded mournful enough though, and so he found it pleasing.
He closed his eyes, imagining, for just a few moments, that he was running with the wolves. A couple of times he had done so in his younger days. Now Fisk pretended to feel the drying fall grass against the soles of his feet, the touch of the branches against his chest and arms as he dashed through the woods. Scents became more intense to him then, his senses had not been dulled by the time spent in cities . . . with all their people and business, cookstoves belching out the odors of cooked meat and vegetables. The blacksmith’s shop adding acrid things to the once clean air. Fisk missed those days for the simple things. But these days he relished because he had more to do, certainly more important things than running through the woods. Still, he let his mind drift there once more.
Then, humming Joel’s “woman” song, Fisk returned to the horse and waited.
The stars began peppering the sky by the time he had company. Fisk hadn’t heard anyone approach, but he smelled a harsh, sour scent that made his eyes water.
"Master,” Fisk said, going down on one knee. "I came at your summons.”
A rattling sound, like a large snake might make, was followed by a belch of air filled with sulfur.
"I understand, Master,” Fisk bowed his head a fraction.
There was more rattling and a sibilant hiss. “Displeasssed, Fisssk.” The words came breathy and low, and the harsh, sour scent intensified. “Very displeasssed.” The rattling resumed.
"My apologies, Master. No, I have not slain the full company of adventurers, as you bade me. But I will. I have never failed you, not in all these years.” Fisk cocked his head, listening to the rattling, and then at length replying. “I caused the deaths of four of the previous company, two meeting most beautiful, grisly ends. The thief escaped their midst, Berthold of the Green he calls himself. But his escape is actually fortuitous, Master. He has broken the present company I am after.”
The rattling grew louder and faster. "Explain, Fisssk.”
“He lured two of them away, the woman and the elf. He’s taking them somewhere. I haven’t determined their location yet. I suspect it matters not where they go, Master. I will follow them through the gems they wear. The company broken, fewer to deal with, they are easier to slay. Divide them and kill them.”
Fisk bent forward, splaying his fingers on the ground and inhaling the sour scent deep into his lungs. He lowered his head and listened to the odd rattling tongue.
"Di
sssapointed, Fisssk.”
He trembled at the repeated pronouncement. "Master, I know the undead blooms did not slay the company. But I had not expected them to. The company is strong, when it is together. The two large men are especially formidable, one of them can become a rampaging beast. I used the undead blooms to study them, to learn their strengths and frailties and fears. I used the blooms to weaken the caravan they guard, and to make the ones around them afraid. I will admit, Master, that I thought the undead might slay one or two of the company. But I had not anticipated the spells of the Glothorio priests.”
“Priestsss. ‘The Coin Gatherersss.’ Hate the priestsss.”
“Yes, they were . . . threatening ... to the undead blooms. But they used so many of their spells. I watched the magical tattoos fly from their heads and arms. They have little magic remaining, Master. The undead weakened them.”
The darkness at the top of the hill moved, and a patch as black as the mare came close to Fisk.
“Your mtentionsss, Fisssk?”
The assassin touched his lips to the ground.
“Everything is as I planned, Master. The company split, the two men travel with the doomed caravan. The blood of the woman and the elf will be easier to spill. The ground will drink up their life, Master.” “Sssoon."
“The true threat to the caravan lies in wait farther to the north. I have set that in motion, Master. A coiled cobra leaning back and ready to spring. Days from now that trap will be sprung.”
“So you mussst see to the woman and the elf first, Fisssk.”
The rattling grew louder still, settling uncomfortably in the assassin’s ears. Fisk clenched his teeth and closed his eyes, waiting for the sound to pass.
“Yes, Master, the woman and the elf first, and the thief from the previous company who travels with them.”
“All of the otherworlders mussst die.”
“Yes, Master.”
The rattling faded, but the black shadow remained. The breeze rustled the dead grass and Fisk’s cloak. The assassin raised his face from the ground and stared into the heart of the shadow.
“All of the otherworlders?”
“The hzard-thing and the priessst, too. Where are they, Fisssk?” The assassin moved his thumbs in circles on the ground and rocked back and forth on his knees. Though he was still looking into the shadow, he was seeing a place to the south, picturing Deav Dyne and Gulth. “I see them, Master. They travel to the swamp."
The rattling started again, soft this time. “I favor the swamp, Fisssk.”
“Yes, Master.”
"You will go there, Fisssk, when you are done with the others. And you will kill the lizard-thing and the priessst. All of the other-worlders mussst die.”
“Yes, Master. I have never failed you.” The assassin rose, eyes still on the heart of the shadow. He listened to the soft rattling, then when it stopped, he returned to his horse. The black mare whinnied anxiously, and Fisk stroked her neck. “We ride, Keesh, to find the elf and the woman first, the little thief who leads them.”
The horse reared back, and flames licked from her front hooves. Gray breath puffed from her nostrils now, appearing as plumes of smoke that twisted into the sky. Her nostrils glowed red like embers, even as her eyes seemed to shoot forth flames.
“We ride, Keesh.”
The horse plunged forward, racing over the rocky ledge and down the steep side of the hill, hooves barely touching the ground, yet sounding like thunder, mane whipping cruelly at Fisk's face as he held on with all his strength.
When the thunder was so muted that the breeze hissed at the dead grass, the heart of the shadow crept toward the rocky ledge. It was a pool of black, wet and glistening and reflecting the stars. It breathed, like any living creature would, expanding and contracting, and making the reflected stars wink and shimmer.
“The otherworlders mussst die,” the black pool hissed. “Soon and mossst horribly.” Rattling softly, the pool poured itself over the rocky ledge and found a crevice to disappear into.
Fisk Lockwood’s fingers were tightly entwined in the mare’s mane. The air around him was colder because of the horse’s speed. It seemed to race impossibly fast, faster than any natural animal of this world. Since Fisk found the pace exhilarating, he didn’t mind the chill. In truth, hot and cold barely registered, and only in the sense that the temperature had changed. He found the cold neither comfortable nor uncomfortable, and the breeze a bother only in that it caused his cloak to flap loudly behind him.
He closed his eyes and listened to the thunder of the mare’s hooves, and her powerful snorts, inhaled the scent of brimstone that spewed from her nostrils. He pictured the fields she dashed over, rotted cornstalks and shriveled bean plants, ruts from plows. The humble homes she sped beyond, the people inside nursing their parasites and never realizing their dreams. Everything a dismal, pathetic blur.
Then the mare was thundering down the trail the caravan had taken, and shortly before dawn was stopping. Fisk slid from her back and stepped off the trail, traveling east a few yards and stopping. He glanced down and saw three copper bracelets festooned with gem dice.
"The elf,” he snarled. “The woman and the thief.” He slammed his fist against his hip. “Their time will come. I will not fail the Master.” Then he was on the horse, which was lightening, as the sky was lightening, turning a dappled gray before his eyes.
A moment later they were heading north.
“The two men first, then,” Fisk said, “the man and the man-beast.”
TWELVE
Sandlings
"Stop. Just for a little while. ’’ Berthold held his side and huffed. “Let a guy catch his breath.”
"You’re always catching your breath.” Yevele looked over her shoulder and shook her head. “I want to reach Quag Keep as last as possible. I’ll not wait for . . .’’ She trowned and balled her fists, set them against her hips.
Berthold sagged to his knees, still huffing. A moment more and he sat, reaching for the waterskin that dangled from his belt. He pulled the cork and took a long drink. “Just for a little while," he repeated. He took another drink, recorked the waterskin, shook it and scowled.
“You’re stopping too often. And you’re drinking too much, ’’ Yevele said flatly. “We re nearly to the desert now, and your skin is nearly flat. Ingrge and I will not share with you later, be sure of that.”
Berthold rested back on his arms and swallowed as he eyed her. She was pacing in a tight circle. “You don’t relax, do you? Always moving. Except when you’re sleeping. And from what I can tell, you don’t sleep much.”
Ingrge sat beside Berthold, closed his eyes and tipped his head up to the early morning sun. The elf was listening intently, but not to the words of either Berthold or Yevele.
“I know how to relax, thief.” Yevele stopped pacing. “But now is not a time to take it easy.”
“I have to rest. I can’t keep up with you. Look at my legs.”
“It is not my fault that you’re short.”
Berthold rubbed his legs sullenly.
"And it is not my fault that you haven’t my energy either.” She turned her back on the man, fists still resting on her hips, staring east. The land that stretched away was dry, flat earth spotted with scrubby patches of crabgrass and thistles. “Ingrge has no trouble with the pace.”
“Ingrge’s an elf, and his legs are longer than mine. Look, Yevele, I didn’t ask to be small. I’ve the body of a jockey. I’m not in bad shape. ” He gave a last pat to his knees. “This isn’t the real me, either. In Bowling Green, I’m six-two. Six-two! I work out in the gym three nights a week. I box in the department program. In the summer I play in a city softball league.” He paused: “Wherever you’re from . . . what are you like there? I’ll wager you’re not like you are here. You’re probably fat and dumpy.”
She stood like a statue, studying the horizon, waiting, apparently refusing to hear him.
“I’m sorry, Yevele. I didn’t mean that.
It’s just that this is hard, you know. This life we have here . . . it's real. We have a past, even if it’s only in our heads. We know about the land and the towns, some of the legends. The elf knows all about the constellations and the Dance and fading dwarven gods. But we have another life, too. For me, it’s the police force. So it’s like we’re not complete people. We’re here, but only part of us . . . I’m afraid I’m going to lose Bert Wiggins, you know. I’m afraid if we don’t do something, I’m going to be Berthold of the Green forever. And I like Bert Wiggins, better than I like Berthold of the Green.”
No response.
After several minutes, Berthold got to his feet and wiped his hands for the last time on his leggings. “I’m ready, but I want to walk for a while, Yevele. A reasonable pace. No more of this running. We’ve been traveling almost a week, and not on any one of those days have I been able to match you. My legs are burning.”
She started walking across the scrub land, slower than before. “You are necessary, thief, Ingrge tells me. I’ll try to make it easier on you. And you can try a little harder."
Still, she stayed ahead of him. Ingrge fell back tor a time, often looking over his shoulder. When they reached the desert, however, he caught up to Berthold.
“What’s with her?” Berthold asked the elf. “The past few days she’s been as testy as all get-out. I haven’t done anything to — ”
“She worries over Naile and Milo. She wonders if we did the right thing by not backtracking and having you remove the bracelets. She will hold herself accountable if something happens to them.” Ingrge whispered the last: “It is just her way. I think she fancies herself the leader of our little adventuring band.”
“Well, I could be wrong, Ingrge, about those bracelets. Maybe no one’s homing in on them.”
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