The old gal raised her arms: “The Giant’s Helm to quench this foreigner’s giant thirst!”
The server clunked the thing on the table in front of him, ale sloshing over the side. He spoke to Morik in Silone: “This woman shittin’ me? I can’t drink all that.” A small keg could be poured into its hollow shell.
And Morik laughed, slapping his back. “No. Stand, take a drink, then pass it around the room. It is good luck if the Giant’s Helm is drained before it is set back on a table. Better luck if the man who starts the drinking finishes it.”
Everyone in the room stood with him, and several folks clapped in unison, and others hooted and hollered. Five newcomers to the tavern took up the clapping soon as they entered; they were the lucky bastards, timing free ale. He tested his grip then lifted it above his head. “The Giant’s Helm!” And he took as big a drink as he dared, ale pouring down his chin to soak his cloak. He handed it to Morik and joined in the clapping.
The further the Helm traveled the more folks clapped, and soon the tavern rocked with stomping feet. The Helm circled the room once, and the whole of the room let loose with the bellow of “Two!” when he drank a second time, then “Three.” Every turn around the room, every clap, every cheer, lifted a weight from his soul. Caught up in something frivolous, the cares of the living and the dead faded, his aching muscles eased, and by the time the Helm returned for his fifth drink maybe half a mug remained. He breathed deep and exhaled, the room in an uproar, chanting for him to “drain the Giant’s Helm.” He hefted it high above his head before bringing it to his lips, and he quaffed the warm ale’s final drop to the cheers of the crowd.
When he sat the Helm on the table in victory, he lowered his eyes to meet Seblêsu’s smile.
The Twins dropped to his hips in a flicker, and while half the room still cheered, the other half put hands to hilts, or leveled crossbows at their table.
To a man the Helmveliners stood with hands to the ready as the room’s joy faded into a tense silence. Solineus put his hands to the table, ready to flip its planks for cover, but the priestess raised her hand.
“Hold your weapons.” She strolled to his table, dragging a chair to plop straight across from him. She eased herself into the seat. “A gentleman would’ve saved a lady a drink.”
Solineus chuckled; whether it was alcohol induced or exasperation, he couldn’t say. “You weren’t invited.”
“A guest is a guest, invited or no. A polite host would sit.”
He glanced down the line of Helmveliners. “A polite guest would quit pointing bolts at the host.” He sat, hands resting on the table in front of him. The Helmveliners followed suit, Morik last.
She wiggled her fingers at her men, and crossbows dipped. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”
“Server! An ale for my guest.” The boy trotted to the bar and Solineus returned his gaze to her cool stare. “No doubt you expected me dead.”
She shook her head, lips pursed. “I expected you to get my message and head home, wherever that may be.”
“You have something which belongs to Helmveline.”
“Do I? I might suggest it belongs to the Foundations, a holy relic of all the people. I left you everything needed for the Ironwing’s posterity… even the rubs so scholars could read that which you lost, but it wasn’t enough for you.”
“Seven good lives you ended—”
“I? I didn’t kill them.”
“You deny the quarrel which took Tanzareu’s life? The avalanche?”
“You forced me to defend myself, the guilt lies on your head not mine. I wanted no one’s life to end.”
“And your people who died trying to take other half of the coin—”
“No, no! Do not put those souls at my feet. I already had what I needed.”
Morik scoffed. “The Gold Masks were yours.”
The server handed Seblêsu an ale with a shaking hand. She took it and drank, grip steady to not spill a drop. “No indeed! They were not. More hands than mine and yours want Hîmr’s Coin.”
Solineus shook his head. “It matters not. I want the other half of Hîmr’s Coin, and if I have to kill you to get it, it’ll be done.”
She sighed, leaned back in her seat. “I’ve shown you great deference in not killing you so far… You are favored by the gods, Survivor of Hîmr’s Breath, killing you would be ill-luck. All I ask is for you to leave me be. Please.”
She sipped her ale, and damned if Solineus didn’t believe her: If he let her go, there would be no more violence. But this presented a problem. He leaned back in his seat and brought a mug of ale to his lips for a flicker to think. “Let us say you are right, part-wise anyhow, and we share the blame for the dead at our feet. It doesn’t change one key element.”
“That I stole the Waystone? Humiliated you? What is it?” She laughed.
And when her humor faded, he spoke: “What you are doing is wrongheaded. My people gave chase to the gods, and it’s because of this that we were driven from our homes, into war with the Hundred Nations, until only thousands survived a journey to the Roemhien Pass.”
She stared at him as he drank, her eyes shifting to solemnity. For a moment he held hope. “I believe you mean your words. Hîmr favored you—”
“Hîmr didn’t favor me one spit . I got lucky. If Hîmr is alive, and it’s an if as big as the Giant’s Helm… the games gods play aren’t for mortals to survive.”
“You felt his breath just as I did.”
“An elemental. Nothing more.”
She studied him and recognized his lie. “No, you too believe he lives… I’d say you know it, though I know not how.”
“Leave sleeping gods to their immortal dreams. You won’t like them when they’re awake.”
She sighed and drained her mug. “I can no more deny my destiny than you yours. I apologize for that, because I truly wish we could be friends.”
He nodded. “I am sorry too.” His heart raced with decisions needing to be made, to fight or stand down, and either might mean dying.
She stood, a sweeping gesture to him and all the Helmveliners. “It would be ill-mannered for either of us to kill the other here and now, might we agree upon that?”
He nodded. “Think on my words. Heed them. Please.”
She bowed, a graceful gesture accompanied by a sweet smile. “I will, and you think on mine.”
She turned and strolled through the front doors, and two dozen men filed into the star-lit night behind her.
Solineus kicked his feet onto the table, a whistling exhale as his fingers drummed his mug and casual conversation returned to the room. Though no doubt most spoke of them and their kerfuffle. “That’s the politest person I ever did want to strangle.”
Morik turned to him with a grin and grunt. “So that’s it? We should’ve killed her.”
He replied in Silone. “I’m drunk and yesterday you pulled me from a pile of snow, ain’t no way in the hells I was gonna pick a fight.” No lie. Despite the spin the ale brought to his head, his muscles were stiff and sore.
“And if she handed the shittin’ coin over?”
Solineus laughed and raised his hand to summon the server. “I’d kiss her hand and say thank you.”
The Kingdomer shook his head. “And you don’t think she’s gonna try to kill us?”
“Nope! I reckon she’ll give us the same chance to think as we’re giving her. Then, when we’re all someplace far from this place, we’ll try to kill each other then.”
Morik snorted as ale arrived. “And until then?”
Solineus stood, raising his mug in salute to every Helmveliner, then to every other man and woman in the tavern. “We honor those who’ve fallen before us… And drink! To peace!”
Ôshôins throughout the hall raised mugs and cheered, but Solineus held no doubt two or three would carry whispers to Seblêsu’s ears.
Morik stood, foaming ale draining down his beard as he spoke. “May we not greet our ancestors in heaven unti
l such time as we’ve put our worldly work behind us!” Mugs raised, and Morik pulled a silver coin from his pouch and hefted it toward the bar; a nimble hand snagged the treasure from the air. “Tavernkeep! Fill the Giant’s Helm!” And the hall thundered its approval, mugs pounding tables and feet tromping and stomping.
Turned out Ôshôins were a pleasant ruckus waiting to happen, all you needed to do was give them a life-and-death show and get them drunk.
11
Dark Waters
She came, she came,
the tongue tying name twisting around the Dame.
The Fire, the Liar, the self-same Desire.
If only you could gaze into your own eyes
and see the truth of your soul, the bowl, the lull, the bull,
the horns forlorn and hammered bent.
Bunny? Funny.
— Tomes of the Touched
The morning arrived with Solineus in a bed, half his gear still on, and suffering a hangover like nothing he could remember. He lay on his back staring at the ceiling as the world expanded and shrunk with every beat of his heart and throb of his skull. His voice came as a croak: “Son of a godsdamned holy hell…”
He rolled and damned near tumbled from bed, but his arm braced against the floor to keep him from spinning to the planks. For a flicker he figured he’d vomit, but the sensation passed. He closed his eyes and breathed deep before dragging himself to his feet. He stumbled to the door for support, straightened his armor, and ran fingers through his hair before stepping into the hall with ginger steps.
Voices caught his ear and he made his way to the stairs: A challenge which felt greater than climbing down Yôgul’s Fall right this flicker. He took the rail and did his best to play off his lumbering stride as a casual saunter. Bodies littered the room, but they were no more dead than he was, and Morik sat in the same seat as last night with a breakfast of some sort of porridge in front of him.
Solineus approached. “Did you sleep in that godsdamned chair last night?”
A weak chuckle. “May as well have for all the good a spinning bed did me.”
A young girl brought him a bowl and spoon, then ladled tan goop; the smell of boiled oat headed straight down his nostrils to make his gut grumble. He plopped in his seat and shoved the bowl as far from his nose as he could reach. He spoke in Silone so not a soul other than Morik would understand. “Any word on the priestess?”
“She’s yet to leave the city, unless she tunneled out.”
“And seeing as your people’re renowned for hidden caves and tunnels?”
Morik’s spoonful of porridge bubbled at his lip as he chortled. “Your guess is good as mine. All I know, she didn’t leave by no gate we can watch.”
“She should’ve drank with us last night, then we’d know she didn’t leave, leastwise not without a pounding head.”
“Truth.” Morik pulled out Tanzarêu’s map of the local mountains and spread it on the table. “Here we are, and here’s the nearest known entrance to them caves. It’s a long route underground to the Barren Mirror. There’s only one godsdamned road to get there, and it’s a winding bastard. They leave before us, they’ll have the rooster’s pick of where to ambush us.”
“Why bother? They’ve got numbers, we can’t touch ‘em.”
“You. You’re why she’d bother, he who is favored by Hîmr is a threat. Trouble is, say we leave before her, what the hells good does it do? She’d know we’re ahead of her and be prepared.”
“This is s’posed to be helpful? We’ve known our shot is piss poor for a while now.”
“Got me to thinkin’, the only way to win is for her to think we’re behind her, but instead we’re ahead of her. I looked at the map last night, and this little jig-squiggle right here.”
Solineus glanced, but like so many scrawls on the Huntress’ vellum, he didn’t know it from a rune-letter. “What the hells is it?”
“Exactly.”
A gray-haired man stumbled into the table; no doubt his head pounded as bad as anyone’s. He eyeballed Solineus’ bowl. “If you aren’t gonna eat that?”
Solineus chuckled. “It is yours, friend.”
“Much obliged.” The man lifted the bowl and slurped, glanced at the map where Morik’s finger lingered. “What are you boys whispering about? Erenfol village ain’t there no more.”
Solineus looked at the map. “There isn’t a village marked…”
The old man scoffed and brushed Morik’s finger away, tapped the squiggle. “Erenfol’s walking well, right there.”
Morik’s chin rose with a snap. “A walking well? You’re sure?”
“I trapped those mountains for as long as you been alive, since the village were still there. And I know my symbols, youngster. You should too.” He laughed and strolled from the table.
“What the hells is a walking-well?”
Morik stared at the map, spoke in Silone. “If that old man’s right, we want to know she’s left before us. Walking wells are rare… instead of digging for water, some villages build entries leading to underground reservoirs or streams, carrying buckets for water.”
“You’re saying?”
“This walking-well could be right on top of where we need to be. At least close.”
It sounded too good, too easy. “Or it might not be connected at all.”
Morik rolled the map. “Got a plan better than a suicidal ambush? If you don’t, I think this is the best shot we’re gonna get.”
Solineus rubbed his throbbing eyes. “How much time would it save us?”
Morik sighed, tugged a brass ring in his beard. “Can’t say for sure, but I’d say three days. Not including our getting lost in the caves.”
Solineus smirked. “You said Kingdomers don’t get lost.”
“Only when we know where we’re going. No matter how deep, I’ll get you out again.”
“We use this walking well, how do we make your plan work?”
“We wait for word of her leaving, give her a full day’s lead, day and a half maybe, in case we’re watched. She’ll leave men in ambush behind or she won’t… either way, we aren’t coming her way. With luck, we make the river and figure where she’s going before she gets there.”
“And we kill her.”
“We take the stone. Living or dying is her choice.”
Solineus yawned, his head splitting with pain. “I reckon it’s the best we got.”
The road to Erenfol was more bare rocks than the brambles and brush Solineus expected, and in sections you could still find wagon ruts worn into the limestone. The village must’ve supported a fair amount of trade, he figured, but of what commodity he didn’t guess even after they arrived. The foundations and scattered walls of maybe twenty buildings stood on the edge of a valley without a sign of a nearby mine as he expected. The rock, stone, and scattered patches of soil weren’t going to support a crop he knew of.
Morik scanned the area. “I’d wager they were scrapers.”
“What the hells is a scraper?”
“Miners always look to strike it rich, but it’s often a fool’s play. So, folks travel about scraping scree and loose rock and cart it off to a smelter. If they find an area with Infused Ore, they’ll set camp and scrape out the area until it don’t make them a living no more. Been known to take out hillsides.”
“Infused ores, like Ikoruv?”
“Aye, don’t take more’n a pebble’s weight of Ikoruv to feed a family for a month… a year. A lucky scraper won’t get rich often, but they do a fine job of feedin’ themselves. When they work together in villages, they scrape larger areas and share the profits. Scrape up some Ermôlên or Ofdôlus! and they might feed the village a year.”
“I wouldn’t know these ores from dirt. The walking well, likely closer to the town or the area they scraped?”
“Once you see Lislinêum you’ll never forget it. You’d think the walking well would be close to town, half-candle’s walk at most I’d wager. Unlikely a scraper village would
have an aqueduct or pipes.” He shouted to his men: “Spread out, search the region.”
Solineus trailed beside Morik and two Helmveliners with crossbows. Rain, snow, winds, grit, they’d all done their work to destroy or conceal any signs of a trail leading from the ruins. “They wouldn’t fill the entrance?”
“Doubtful. Apt to be a natural entrance, they would’ve chosen the area to build because of the river, once they found ore.”
Solineus turned up the side of the mountain above the village for a better view and the others followed. “Rock face yonder looks like it’s been taken to bare rock… same over there. Things don’t grow so well where the villagers scraped.”
“Reckon so.”
A water worn gulley cut through the stone from on mountain high, just to their west, a runoff leading into thick brambles. He pointed. “Rains wash down the mountain there, but no erosion coming out of them bushes.”
Morik whistled. “We Helmveliners have a saying: Sometimes it takes more than a keen eye to see the truth.” He waved an arm over his head. “Clear these bushes! And I wager we find our walking well.
The brambles weren’t eager to give up their turf, with roots digging deep into rocky crevasses and thorns long as a puma’s tooth; strong and sharp enough to sink straight through their heavy soled boots, not a man came away without cuts, scratches, and punctures. Blades struggled to cut the wiry, interwoven mess, even Latcu, so they were reduced to pulling tight and cutting sections at a time. Even then, it was so overgrown they damned near had to clear the whole area just to make a single path.
Solineus was damned happy when he spotted the black crack leading into the mountain’s belly; if they’d found nothing, it would’ve been time, sweat, and blood ill spent.
“Hole’s too small for Ôgrihîn.” Morik stood staring at the fissure. Chiseled steps led into the darkness, roughhewn and uneven, but nothing to fear. “Still, I feel as a hare wandering into the fox’s den.”
“After a candle clearing the damned thing, if there were anything there, I’d think it would’ve bit us by now.” One thing for certain, with those thorny bushes in the way, this wasn’t the route Seblêsu took the Waystone. “All this work, it’d be silly to change our minds now.”
Solineus Page 12
