Departure
As Andaris approached the stables, he could see that Gaven was indeed playing cards, just not with the stable boy. The big man sat at a makeshift table constructed of barrels and planks, an ungainly affair that appeared to have been tacked together haphazardly by someone possessing a personal vendetta against all things square. Gaven peered over his numbered fan at an elderly gentleman who looked to be somewhere in his late seventies to early eighties—elderly but not old. Both men wore cagey, calculating expressions.
Who could that be? Andaris wondered, eyes widening at the quality and variety of the stranger’s weapons. Gaven hadn’t mentioned meeting anyone, and it seemed unlikely that this was just some random passerby. “So,” Andaris called, “who’s winning?”
Both heads turned, disapproving stares similar enough to be comical.
“What kept ya?” Gaven asked, unable or unwilling to keep the irritation from his voice, mouth turning down as he turned back to the game.
The big man hated people being late. He saw it as a sign of disrespect, and so usually took offense, unless there was a real good reason not to, and then only if it wasn’t a chronic thing. “If it was important enough to ‘em, they’d be on time,” he’d often argued. “Being late says you don’t care about anyone but yourself.”
Andaris came to a halt before responding, the good cheer that had so recently blossomed in his breast withering away again. “I’m sorry, Gaven. I was saying my goodbyes to Mandie and…she started mumbling like she does sometimes, dreaming about her past and squeezing my hand. It’s like a part of her knew I was there. I didn’t feel right about leaving until she was done, especially under the circumstances. You know, there’s no guarantee that she’ll—” He’d been on the verge of saying, “be here when we get back, but choked on the words before he could get them out. Face reddening, he looked away and cleared his throat. When he was sure that he could speak without his voice breaking, he added, “And there’s no telling how long we’ll be gone, so….”
Gaven swallowed whatever reprimand had been on the tip of his tongue and said, “It’s okay, Andaris. Really. I understand. I probably would’ve done the same thing.”
Andaris nodded solemnly, grateful for his friend’s kind words.
A moment later, the big man’s dour expression was replaced by one that looked much more at home on his broad face—jovial good humor. “Now,” he said, gesturing with flourish to his silver-haired opponent, “it’s high time I introduced the two of you. This is Belfar’s father, the closest thing to a grandfather I’ll ever have, and a mighty fine fellow in the bargain. As you know, he helped raise me, and that was no easy task. I was a handful and a half on the best of days.” Gaven got to his feet. “Andaris Rocaren, meet Handel Dunarin. Most folks just call him Gramps.”
Andaris grinned and walked the rest of the way to the table as Handel, his agility belying his age, sprang to his feet. He’s even bigger than Gaven! Andaris thought, craning his neck to look up at him. “Nice to meet you, Gramps,” he said, holding out his hand.
Handel eyed the proffered appendage with momentary doubt, as though expecting some trick, back and belt bristling with weapons, a steel-quilled porcupine with the heart of a bull. After nothing untoward occurred, he smiled and, vigorously enough to make Andaris’ teeth rattle, gave the extended hand a good and thorough shaking.
“Honor’s all mine, young’n’! Very glad to make your acquaintance! Heard a lot about you, as ya might s’pose.” Gramps glanced around, scanning the yard for prying eyes, lowered his voice and said, “Gaven here invited me to come along, at least as far as the entrance, so there’d be someone to watch the horses while you boys are inside, and someone to fetch help if ya don’t come back out. Provided it’s okay with you, that is.”
Gramps’ chest swelled with remembered pride. “I know the territory as well as any man alive. I can still swing a sword and drop a deer clean at a hundred yards if’n I needs ta.” He reached back with a wrinkled hand and touched, almost caressed, his ash bow, the top of which protruded above his right shoulder beside a couple dozen blue-fletched arrows. “This was my father’s, and his father’s before him, and one day soon it’ll be Gaven’s.” Gramps’ leathery face lit with mirth, transforming him, giving Andaris a glimpse of how he’d looked in his youth.
He must have really been something, he thought.
“But not today, boyo! I’ve got months left in me. Mayhap years!”
Andaris had heard some pretty tall tales regarding the man, most often conveyed with great bravado by a partially to fully inebriated Gaven. By all accounts, he was quite the colorful character, having lived a superlative, if somewhat contradictory life defined by high adventure, noble deeds, and roguish pursuits.
Now, anyone who’d known Gaven for more than five minutes knew he possessed a flare for embellishment. That said, given the astonishing breadth and scope of the tales, Gramps would still make for a very welcome travel companion. In other words, even if his accomplishments had been exaggerated by half, which they hadn’t, and even if it had been twenty years since he’d seen anything but gray in his beard, which it had, he was still twice the man you were apt to find for hire at your local Tavern. You know the sort—the drunken louts with the surly dispositions who do nothing for no one unless it involves a pouch full of gold and an opportunity for future debauchery, the sort of men who make you feel obliged to sleep with one eye open, a sword half drawn, and a warding spell cast.
In addition to his sterling credentials, Gramps’ had lived alone since the death of his son, Belfar Dunarin, and so had no one and nothing to tie him down. Beyond Gaven, that is, and he was leaving. All things considered, it was a very easy decision to make, especially since Andaris’ consent was little more than a formality. For all intents and purposes, he was Gaven’s grandfather. If he wanted to go, he would go. It was as simple as that.
“Well,” Andaris began, “it would certainly be better than having to walk back to Rogar, which is where the horses would go if we left them to fend for themselves. And even if they didn’t, I like the thought of having someone on the outside. You never know when an extra sword will come in handy.”
Gramps clapped Andaris on the back. “You said I’d like ‘im, Gaven, and you tweren’t wrong! It’ll be good to be away from that confounded farm, to feel the road beneath my legs again. And if’n I die along the way, so be it. Better out in the wilds of the world than cowering in that damn bed. Mark me on that one, boys. And mark me good!”
The lore pertaining to The Lost City maintains, in rather categorical language, that its precise position changes from day to day, which means, the precise distance between Rogar Keep and The Lost City changes from day to day, which means, there was no way for them to know exactly how long it would take them to get there. That being said, should they choose to make an educated guess based on past descriptions, their own experiences, and the latest cartography, somewhere between two to five days seemed likely.
Fortunately, as they’d assumed must be the case all those months ago, the opening they’d crawled through was not the only way in. Not too far off the main pass through the Onarris, there was, according to the maps loaned to them by Ashel, another entrance, a bigger, double-doored kind of entrance with stone pillars carved deep into the side of the mountain, broad steps leading down, welcoming anyone with the wisdom to see and the will to climb.
After all the years of searching, it was a wonder nobody had found it. Generations of historians had tried and failed, scouring the area for the smallest of clues, determined to unearth at least a piece or two of one of the most baffling puzzles this world had ever known. A big double-doored kind of entrance like that should be fairly noticeable. But then those doing the scouring probably didn’t have a map, and almost certainly hadn’t taken into account little things like magic, nature, and providence.
The stable boy eyed them warily as they mounted their horses and spurred them east, setting out at a full gallop—
for no other reason, as far as he could tell, than to show off, kicking up enough dust to make everyone in their wake shout and point. It wasn’t every day that he saw three men ride off as they had, weighted down with enough supplies to last through the next winter, armed with enough weapons to win the next war. Talk would come of it—he’d make sure.
A Peculiar Campsite
They had ridden most of the day, climbing ever higher into the mountains, the hard-packed trail welcoming them with open, albeit icy arms. The thinning air and dropping temperature combined to give their surroundings a hushed, ethereal feel. They had the sense that they were ascending into another world. Here, anything seemed possible, the line separating reality from fancy beginning to blur, its borders teeming with all manner of strange and wondrous things.
The peaks of the Onnaris, due to their altitude and geographic position, remained snow clad year round. This, of course, was of little concern to Andaris and company, for they were headed between said peaks, not over. Light snow and a biting wind was the worst with which they would contend, nothing too troubling, or so Gramps assured them.
Soon after entering the high country, they began searching for a flat area to make camp. Once located, they pitched their tents and gathered stones for a fire. “Stay away from them gold ones with the red swirls,” warned Gramps. Or, as Andaris was beginning to think of him, “The Great Woods sage.” The man seemed to know everything about everything—out here, anyway.
Andaris dropped the armload of stones he’d been carrying and began his search anew. Naturally, the gold ones with the red swirls were the most plentiful, and the perfect size, too. Andaris refrained from asking why, knowing that the explanation was forthcoming.
Gaven’s wry smile widened as Gramps began to speak. “I knew a fellah who done blowed himself up with them rocks. You see…they explode when they get too hot. A fire ring indeed!” Gramps wheezed with laughter, a fit which soon deteriorated into coughing. He held up his hand to allay any concern. “A ring of grenadoes with short fuses, I call ‘em! He was a nice enough fellah, too…right up ‘til he got his guts ripped out. Not too far from here, neither. Damn shame. He knew better. He’d heard the same warnings I had. The trouble with ole Tye was that he was powerful lazy, and thought maybe it was just an ol’ wives’ tale. Heck, if’n he put the stones far enough from the flame he’d be all right. Right? Wrong! Oh, well. He’s not the first to hand over his life on account of foolishness, and won’t be the last. It’s nature’s way of weedin’ out the simpletons before they can pollute the bloodlines!”
In order to have enough coals to bury in the ground beneath their bedrolls, they made the fire as big and as bright as possible. “It’ll keep ya warm as a buzzard in a pot!” Gramps told them with a broad grin. “I should know. Back when I was a trapper, I spent many a night out in the wilds of the world. Alone. T’would have frozen solid more times than I care to count if not for that little trick.”
They finished dinner as the last pink hues deepened to a dusky purple, the mountains silhouetted before the darkening sky, stone giants huddled against the horizon for warmth. A chill wind gusted through the leaves of the trees, whispering of the cold night to come, sounding lonely and lost, as though mourning the passing of the sun. No more than an hour ago, there was the chirruping of birds and skittering of squirrels to keep them company. But now the forest seemed utterly deserted. Now it was only them and their horses. No doubt the woodland animals had gone to ground early this night, digging deep into their burrows, lulled to sleep by sweet dreams of dawn’s first light.
“Never had none better,” Gramps confided, sitting back and patting his stomach, “and not just delicious neither, healthy too! Mother t’would o’ been proud.” It was a group compliment he was making, seeing how the meal had been a group effort. The venison had been supplied by Gramps, an eight-point buck felled the previous dawn. The greens had been supplied by Gaven, picked fresh from his backyard garden that very morning. And the linberries had been supplied by Andaris. Spotting the tangled hedge beside the trail a couple of hours ago, he had all but leapt from Del’s back and burrowed in. Anyone who knew anything about linberry bushes knew the best fruit, that is, the sweetest and fattest berries, hung far within, safe from nibbling mouths and withering sun.
In addition to gathering the berries, Andaris had done the majority of the cooking, turning the spit with methodical ease, pausing now and again to baste the meat with lard and spices, the rich aroma watering the mouths of carnivores for miles round.
After their plates were scraped clean, Gramps sat forward and, with an expression that bordered on cunning said, “I’d be inclined, if you boys are willin’, to tell a story.” The firelight danced on his face and eyes, lending a sense of urgency to the features of a man who was elderly but not old. Gramps spread his leathery palms in a placating gesture and said, “T’would ya hear my tale, boys?”
“That we would, Gramps,” replied Gaven, his response sounding rote, mouth and eyes set in attentive, congenial lines, broad face made inquisitive by a first, or perhaps second cousin of wonder. Andaris could imagine Gaven sitting beside the hearth as a boy, listening to Gramps spin out length after length of colorful yarn, fertile young mind held spellbound.
“Isn’t that right, Andaris?”
“Uh…Sure. I’d be honored.”
Gramps nodded and, with a quiet dignity that seemed at odds with his gruff appearance said, “I’ve been hearin’ stories about where we’re headed for most my life, and that’s, well, a long time. My grandfather told ‘em to my father, my father told ‘em to me, and now I’m gonna tell ‘em to you.” Gramps paused to gather his thoughts, finding the beginning of the correct thread, hoping to weave it, with the help of his ochre-lighted audience, into a proper yarn.
“Now, as Gaven knows and you probably suspect, I’m talkin’ ‘bout the land that separates our world from the next, about the veil that enshrouds The Lost City. When you enter this veil, this borderland, ya feel a tinglin’ sensation, like a thousand tiny spiders crawlin’ across your skin. It only last a few seconds if ya keep movin’. Thank Rodan for that, ‘cause it ain’t exactly pleasant. It’s like you’re crossin’ over, or…passin’ through, some kind of invisible boundary, and it’s the magic of what’s waitin’ on the other side that you’re feelin’.”
After a dramatic pause that would have given Ashel a run for his money, Gramps pointed up the trail. “Before long, we’ll be knockin’ on the door to a place that’s differen’ from anywhere you’ve ever been, differen’ from any place I know of, or anyone I knows of knows of.”
“How so?” asked Andaris, a little embarrassed by his question.
“Well, for example, time and distance don’t work quite the same in there. I can’t explain it. All’s I know is that every once in a while, things just sorta speed up or slow down. For the most part, it’s a small difference, but enough to throw ya off if you’re not expectin’ it. One day in particular, though, was worse than the others. I’d been ridin’ for hours, I know I had, yet the sun had barely moved. Gave me a serious case of the willies, it did. And sometimes it sounds like the wind’s talkin’ to ya. Best not to listen, ‘cause what it says ain’t exactly comfortin’. Other times, ya see things that shouldn’ be real….”
He shook his head, bemused. “I was a young man when I went there. Just wanted to find out if there was anything to all the talk. Well, one mornin’, after havin’ some of the strangest dreams I ever did have, I got my answer. There, steppin’ out o’ the mist, pretty as ya please, was a kinda…horselike animal with green scales instead of hair, and a mighty rack of curlin’ horns.
Now, being that I was young and…full of piss and vinegar, as the sayin’ goes, I jumped up and took off after it, stringin’ my bow, determined to get proof—a trophy to take home and show my friends. This is it! I thought. After this, I’ll be the big man in town for sure!”
He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “But that’s not exactly how
things turned out. ‘Cause all the sudden, before ya could say howdy-do, it up and whirled about and tossed its head at me, neighing at me somethin’ fierce, somehow making me feel…ashamed for what I was about to do, small and dirty against its nobility, its…majesty. Well, needless to say, I couldn’t shoot. I dropped my bow and my jaw, stunned to my core, and just stood there watchin’ as it turned and galloped back into the mist, never to be seen again….”
The hush that followed these cryptic words was broken only by the crackling of the fire. Nearly a full minute passed without further conversation. Del snorted and stamped uneasily, the limbs of the trees swaying in time to the mournful gusting of the wind. Gramps’ experience had obviously affected him deeply. Indeed, its mere recounting seemed to possess the power to enthrall.
Andaris was about to ask if he was done, if that was really the end of the story, when there came a soft thumping…then scratching…from inside the box Ashel had given him….
Questionable Cartography
The box sat at Andaris’ feet, looking innocent, small, and altogether unremarkable. “I’m just a box,” it seemed to say. “That scratching and thumping couldn’t have possibly come from inside of me, so you may as well take your inquiries elsewhere.” All three men stared at it, not sure what to think.
They sat there, staring, for what felt like a long time. Long enough, anyway, to make them wonder if they hadn’t imagined the whole thing. Andaris was about to suggest something to that effect when the box shook with a loud, and this time undeniable, thump!
Andaris pictured a miniature ram colliding with one of the interior walls, miniature body inlayed with gems and gossamer threads of gold.
The Stair Of Time (Book 2) Page 7
