by Dave Gross
"No, don't you see? Come, come here." He grasped my hand. His skin felt paper-thin, but beneath it I felt the pulse of life. He placed my hand on the outer panel of one of the carriage doors. "Feel it."
The lacquer had peeled, leaving the once-smooth surface coarse and brittle. Ash and crystalline residue clung to my fingers. I reached for a handkerchief.
"No," insisted Fimbulthicket. "Feel it. Really feel it."
Suppressing an impatient sigh, I did as he bade me. Kneeling beside the ruined door, I pressed my hand to the scorched surface. Still I felt nothing more than the cold dead wood of an object I treasured perhaps more than I should. After all, I had never met the father who sent it to me.
A sudden anger stirred my heart. Had I been deluding myself all these years? Why had I elevated the stature of my absent father so? Was it to replace the lacuna of his existence with an ideal of a lost, romantic figure, unable to return to the family he loved? In my childish fantasy, the carriage provided a substitute for an affection I had never received.
"I feel nothing."
As I rose, I touched the hilt of my sword to avoid tripping. Just as had occurred at the masquerade, a double vision appeared before me. Radovan, Arnisant, and Fimbulthicket appeared unchanged, although the images carved on Radovan's jacket shimmered with motion—no doubt the result of its recent enchantments. It was the Red Carriage whose outer illusion faded to reveal the truth inside.
Its wooden body appeared not as scrap but more as the injured body of a living plant. Its splintered edges oozed with a golden sap so clear and fine as to be invisible to the unassisted eye. The darkened clots I had taken for mold now seemed far more like weeping scabs.
I could see beneath the surface. Within the fibers of the wood, thousands upon thousands of vital capillaries spread throughout the carriage. At every injury they had been severed. The missing pieces were not lost but amputated.
"It is wounded," I said. How long had I left the carriage to lie alone in a Greengold warehouse? Had it suffered in its untreated injury? Could it feel pain? Loneliness? For how much was my ignorance to blame? A surge of remorse caught in my throat.
The gnome placed a hand on my shoulder. "Now you see. Now you feel. The carriage doesn't need repair. It needs healing. It needs Variel."
"Tell me more about this Variel Morgethai."
Fimbulthicket paused, his face contorting with a sudden epiphany. "Oh, no! I thought you understood. I thought you knew! Oh, I should have known by the way you said his name."
"What is it?"
"Variel Morgethai isn't just the creator of the Red Carriage," said Fimbulthicket. "He's your father."
Chapter Four
The Fierani Forest
Radovan
Somebody was making a hell of a racket, and not just in my nightmare. I'd been having a lot of those lately. I shook off the terrors, sat up, and rubbed sand out of my eyes.
Desna smiled. Nobody was getting murdered outside of dreamland. Arnisant just had Fumblewhatsit backed up against the campfire.
"Call off your animal! Great glens and gardens, he'll eat me in one bite!" The gnome wasn't tall enough to hold the skillet out of reach. He protected it with his body, but the hound's big jaws shook his confidence.
"Arni, get over here!"
The dog bounded and sat beside me, a long rope of drool running from his jaws.
The gnome scowled at Arni and set the skillet back on the fire. Fat black sausages sizzled in the pan.
"You all right, Fim?"
"Fimbulthicket," he winced as he pressed a hand to hip. "And I'm fine, thanks for asking. Dodging a hungry dog is nothing new, I'm sorry to say."
"Where's the boss?"
The gnome tilted his head in the direction of the brook. His baggy eyes told me the boss had kept him up late, as he had our last couple of nights in Omesta, quizzing him about his old man. It didn't help that we'd slept this last night in the forest just outside the elf and gnome city. The boss said it was supposed to get us prepared for the upcoming journey.
It was going to take a lot more than one night's camping to toughen up the gnome, who winced every time he moved. He probably hadn't spent a night out of a soft bed since he'd last seen Variel. That was around the time the boss was born, and I still had trouble thinking of him as working on a hundred years old.
I didn't mind sleeping on the ground so much as the fiends tearing through my dreams. I couldn't blame it on last night's supper, which had been pretty plain fare after all the rich elven goodies back in Iadara. No, I had a pretty good idea where my nightmares came from. They didn't come from the things I'd eaten. They came from the things I'd done.
As I pulled on my boots, the back of my neck itched. I looked around, saw nothing. Listening, I heard the sizzling meat on the fire, the water from the brook, and birdsong from the trees, but nothing out of order. Still, it felt like somebody was watching me.
I shook out my blanket and made a cloud of gray dog hair. No wonder I'd dreamed about wrestling a demon-bear. Whenever I slept near the boss, Arni waited for him to fall asleep before moving from the foot of his bunk to steal my covers, the big mooch.
The starknife rested behind the pack. I'd carried it with me ever since we'd left Ustalav. Even all the time I tramped through Tian Xia in a devil's body, I kept it near. A few times I'd had to use it to kill, but that's not why Azra gave it to me. Despite swearing to Bishop Senir that I'd never go back to Ustalav, I wondered sometimes whether Azra was waiting for me to return her knife and seal the offer she'd made me.
It was a stupid thing to think about. I wrapped the starknife in my blanket and stuffed them both into my pack.
I fetched my jacket off the tree where I'd hung it. It looked no worse for the dunking I'd taken back in Iadara. Most of my scrapes and bruises had healed, too. While the night I spent with Kemeili was fun, I was glad it was behind me. There'd been a time I'd have felt different. Maybe the problem was I'd spent a year stuck in a body nobody could love. Or maybe I'd had my fill of rough stuff for one lifetime.
My spurs slid into their elbow slots as I shrugged on the jacket. I rolled my shoulders to feel the slack hidden under the overlapping strips of red leather. It was the best jacket I'd ever had, and I liked feeling my tools close to hand. If I slapped my arms just so, razor-sharp blades filled my fingers. Even in a tight spot, it was easy to slip a rake or probe out of a hidden pocket.
I snagged a couple sausages from the skillet, juggling them as the fat dripped down my fingers. It was time I learned to be more careful around hot things.
Arnisant followed me out of camp. When I paused, he sat at my side and gave me a pitiful look.
I broke a sausage in half and held it up. "You stay off my bed. Got it?"
The Arnisant Falls started flowing. Before he could drown in his own puddle of drool, I dropped the sausage. He made it disappear and looked to me for more. I finished mine before I let him have the other half of his. Otherwise he'd harry me all the way to the brook.
We found the boss in the middle of the stream. He stood on a stone, his pose telling me he was halfway through the Thirty-Six Forms he'd learned from the masters of Dragon Temple. I'd learned the same exercises from a less reputable source. No surprise, the boss still practiced the Forms, and I had to admit he was a lot better at them than I was. Still, I made better use of them up close and personal.
I hopped onto a nearby stone and joined him. Usually we didn't go for more than a minute before he started pointing out my mistakes. This time he didn't say a word. We just let our bodies flow through the motions.
We finished and began again. As we Gathered the Sun and did Crane Steps Forth, I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. The elf ranger Caladrel crouched on a branch overhanging the brook. He watched until we finished the second routine.
The boss looked at Caladrel. An unspoken message passed between them, and the elf dropped as light as a leaf to the ground. He set aside his bow and quiver, slipped the long elven c
urveblade off his back. Facing us, he imitated our movements as we did it all again.
By the time we reached Tip the Leaf, I knew he was one hell of a quick learner.
"Immaculate," the boss said when we were done. "Have you studied?"
Caladrel shook his head. "I practiced Willow-Oak calisthenics while training for the rangers. Your exercise seems to have a similar purpose."
They collected their weapons, and Arni and I followed them back to the campsite. Caladrel and the boss were the same height, a good five inches taller than me. As they locked step, the boss fell into the ranger's rolling gait. As long as I'd known him, he was a natural mimic, even when he wasn't trying.
It was good to see the boss in his long coat with the riffle scrolls slung around his chest. The Shadowless Sword hanging from his hip should have looked all wrong with his Chelish clothes, but somehow its black-and-gold lacquered scabbard seemed to fit in just perfect. When he drew the blade, it moved as swiftly as his Chelish rapier ever had. Swifter, even. He said that's how it got its name, because it moved too fast for the sun to throw a shadow behind it.
The one difference I noticed in the count lately was that he'd lost that little bit of gray in his hair. I couldn't tell whether he was using dye or magic, but it was only a matter of time before I caught him at it. He was getting old, even for a half-elf, but he hid it pretty good.
"Prince Amarandlon sent me to aid in your search," said Caladrel. He saw the boss's eyes narrow, same as me. "He explained that the expedition is under your command. I welcome the opportunity to learn from you."
The boss nodded, but he was preening on the inside. He likes having his toes kissed. I guess that can't be helped, when you're born into the richest family in the richest country in the world. "The prince's message said I should expect two others."
"Maybe Faunra?" I'd hoped to find that doe-eyed ranger in Omesta while the boss and Fimbulthicket planned our excursion, but the gnomes told me she'd flown back to Iadara. I made up for my disappointment by catching up on the sleep I'd lost with Kemeili.
The boss gave me a look, but Caladrel smiled. He was turning out to be a regular guy, despite the toe-kissing.
"I'm afraid not," said the elf. "I'm here for the rangers. The others will represent other concerns. Doubtless one will be the queen's creature."
The boss's eyebrow rose a bit. Otherwise he masked his suspicion pretty good.
"That reminds me," Caladrel said, rummaging in his pack. "I bring a gift from Prince Amarandlon."
"Your master has been most generous to me," said the boss.
"Actually, the gift is for your associate."
The boss masked his disappointment pretty bad.
Caladrel pulled out a dirt-colored cloth and handed it to me. It was light as a handkerchief, but I let it fall open and saw it was a full cloak with a hood.
"Thanks," I said, trying to sound polite. "But it's not really my style."
"Your red leathers stand out against the forest," said Caladrel. "With scouts from the Witchbole venturing ever closer, stealth is our first line of defense."
"It's kind of warm to wear a cloak, don't you think?"
"Try it on."
The boss gave me the look, so I threw the cloak over my shoulders. The hem fell just above the top of my boots, covering up my red jacket and pants. It wasn't too warm after all.
"Much better," said Caladrel. "Now you aren't visible from a mile away."
"Thanks." Maybe it'd get caught in a briar patch. Maybe a breeze would blow it into a ravine. I revised my wish list for Lady Luck.
Back at the camp, the gnome with the goofy name rolled his eyes when he saw we'd brought company for breakfast. When the boss told him to expect two more, he shuffled over to his pack and dug out more sausages. Grumbling as he rubbed his wrists, he said, "I hope they bring more provisions."
"It would appear one has," said Caladrel.
A tall figure came out of the forest. Mirror-bright armor glinted out from beneath a hooded elven cloak like mine. The warrior's backpack was twice the size of mine, and it came with a barn door of a shield and a rafter of a sword.
The newcomer dropped the pack. Pulling back the hood, she revealed herself as the Forlorn woman who'd slugged me at the queen's party.
"Desna weeps." Sometimes I forget and say it out loud.
Caladrel coughed. "Count Jeggare, allow me to introduce Oparal, paladin of Iomedae."
"Your Excellency." She made a stiff Chelish bow.
The boss barely nodded, reminding her of the pecking order. With a sly smile, he said, "I believe you are already acquainted with my bodyguard, Radovan."
The black pupils of her steel-colored eyes slid toward me. Her nostrils flared. Her expression was almost comical except for the fact that my jaw still ached. Otherwise, I would have tipped her a wink to show I wasn't scared.
I wasn't. Not much, anyway.
"Hungry?" asked the gnome.
"Yes," said Oparal. "Our owl only just arrived."
At a nod from the boss, Oparal went to sit beside the fire. I made the "let's talk" sign. Caladrel caught the hint and joined the others at the fire while the boss and I strolled out of earshot.
"You sure this is a good idea? I mean, seriously—a paladin?"
"We could wish for no better ally if we encounter demons in the forest."
"We don't need one of these holy avengers. They make me nervous. You don't like them either. Besides, we've handled fiends before."
"I never said I don't like paladins. As for demons, you and I have only ever faced one or two at a time, usually with the Egorian Watch only a shout away."
"You're forgetting Iron Mountain."
"I forget nothing," he said. "Those were devils. And you were on their side."
He had to remind me of that. "I couldn't help it."
"All I am saying is that the circumstances are different."
"You weren't the one that ogress clobbered."
"I was not the one who offended her."
"Thanks for the sympathy."
The boss looked past me. That sly smile found its way back onto his face. "Perhaps our last companion will be more to your liking."
I turned to see her approach. Under an elven cloak she wore black-and-yellow leathers—wasp colors. A coiled whip hung at her back, pushing up her cloak like the bustle of a ball gown.
Kemeili planted a fist on her hip and smiled at me. "You didn't think I'd let you get away that easily, did you?"
∗ ∗ ∗
Caladrel paused and raised a hand. He lowered it, palm-down. We all crouched low. Even Arnisant lay down without needing to be told. Clever boy.
Whatever the ranger spotted, I was glad to set down my overstuffed pack. The boss kept his books in his satchel, but I was the one hauling around the rest, including his tent. At least he had all his little scrolls and widgets in his coat and bandolier.
Caladrel beckoned the boss forward. I went with him.
We peered through some bushes at a mob of demons ambling through the forest. They wore the bodies of elves, some of them in scraps of ranger leathers, but there was no mistaking them for real elves. They jiggled with every step, glutted with something wriggling inside them. I counted seventeen of the damned things.
"Vermleks," whispered Caladrel.
"I will lead the attack," said Oparal, who'd joined us without an invitation. She shrugged off her pack and set her shield on an arm as thick as mine. Traced in gold on the shield's face was the image of a winged, eagle-headed woman.
"No," said the boss. "There are too many for us simply to rush in."
"The count is right," said Caladrel.
"But we are less than half a day from Omesta," said Kemeili, who I hadn't even heard creep up on us. "They have never come so close before."
"They have, and more often than you might think," said Caladrel. "But we are charged with protecting the queen's guest. You take your duty seriously, don't you, Oparal?"
"I—" Oparal
looked at the boss and me. "I do."
"Then wait. With your permission, Count Jeggare ...?"
The boss gave him the nod, and Caladrel drew an arrow from his quiver. I could have sworn the fletching moved itself into his fingers, like the container was handing it to him. He nocked the arrow. On its tip was a lump that looked like a plant bulb.
The boss whispered to Oparal. "Caladrel knows the forest. We will follow his lead."
"Of course, Excellency."
"In the field, call me Varian."
I didn't like having a cloak on me, even if it didn't make me too hot. I dropped it on the ground. As an afterthought, I shrugged off my jacket, too. Oparal looked at me like I was stupid. Maybe she was right, but I didn't want demon gore all over my new leathers.
Caladrel popped up and back down so quick that I noticed the sound of his bow only after I realized he was moving. The demons heard it, and some of them looked back in our direction. A few stared so hard I felt like they were looking straight at me. I moved real quiet-like, and their elven eyes followed me.
Past the demons, the arrow hit the ground with a squelching sound. That got the attention of all the demons. Wailing, they rushed toward the arrow, shoving each other to reach it first.
"The scent drives them mad," Caladrel whispered. He pointed through the brush at a pair of demons ripping hunks of meat off each other. Caladrel nodded up toward the forest canopy. "It also attracts help."
At first it looked like cones were dropping from the high branches, but there were no pines around. The "cones" were fist-sized wasps.
"Well done, Caladrel," said Kemeili.
The demons noticed nothing but what was between them and the scent. The wasps swarmed over them. For a few moments, the demons didn't seem to notice. Then one began screaming and slapping at its elven body. Its head swelled and darkened. An instant later, it burst open like a rotten melon. A liver-colored worm's head burst out through its gaping neck, squealing as it squirmed free of its wasp-stung body.
"Now?" Oparal had her hand on her sword.
"Let them weary themselves," said Caladrel.
An impatient growl rumbled in Oparal's chest. She sounded like Arnisant when he spied a cat. She was spoiling for a fight.
