By the time Kipp had finished his story, Edoma was ready to wring his neck. A fun game, he had called it. It had been anything but.
"You could be thrown before the Council for this," she said.
"It was Ealstan's idea. He doesn't like Hiroc a bit."
That much was obvious. Edoma waved Kipp out with a final warning.
29
Hiroc
"Idmaer demands to know whether you've found anything about the shatterer," Hiroc said to Wulfnoth. Idmaer had said no such thing, but he needed an excuse to speak with Wulfnoth.
"Demands? Idmaer doesn't demand. He asks nicely. Like you ought to."
Hiroc reeled back at the stench of strong drink. Jaruman's ale was the best in all the town, but it smelled better when it was fresh from a keg, rather than the aftermath of Wulfnoth's poor digestion. The smell reminded Hiroc of the strong drink the Daughters had given him to help with the pain.
His arms still ached from where the skinwalker had punctured his flesh. He could barely lift them above his shoulders, but that was still a marvel. The wounds on his back had healed completely. All thanks to Edoma's magic. When he'd awoken that morning, he hadn't told her what Ealstan and the others had done to him. He feared that if she learned that others knew he was Talented, she might hide him away. She had a bad habit of treating him like a son.
Hiroc tried not to breathe through his nostrils, tempered the disdain in his tone, and asked Wulfnoth, "Any luck tracking the giant?"
Wulfnoth sighed, ejecting more detestable aromas. "Nothing. It's like he disappeared. Never seen someone who can be somewhere without leaving a trace. You sure this giant isn't a ghost?"
"I saw him. He's as real as you and me." He couldn't think of a convenient way to bring up Wulfnoth's son. That was, after all, the real reason why he was in Wulfnoth's home.
It wasn't much of a home. Empty wineskins lay on the floor. Hiroc lifted his boot. Dog shit, too. Wulfnoth had always been a drunk, but it seemed he had gotten worse just in the last week.
Why does Idmaer still employ this drunkard? He probably had his reasons. Idmaer wasn't the terrible man everyone made him out to be. And if there was one man whom Idmaer considered a friend, it was Wulfnoth. Hiroc didn't see things the same way.
"Or maybe the giant is a mage?" Wulfnoth said. "I know folk don't like to talk about it, but men can do strange things with magic. This one fella I caught once, he . . ." He grabbed Hiroc's arm. "You got any coin on you? I've run out of ale, and Jaruman won't let me back in the tavern until I pay my dues."
Hiroc frowned at Wulfnoth's dirty fingers. "Idmaer provides you with a stipend. It's your own fault if you piss it away." Realizing he had an opportunity, he removed Wulfnoth's hand as politely as he could manage. "Tell me what you know about the Talented, and I'll give you enough coin for a mug of ale."
"I don't know nothing about—"
"Two mugs. That's the most I'll give you. I already know your son was Talented."
Wulfnoth suddenly appeared sober. "He was. I'm surprised you called him my son. Most people thought he was Saega's. Truthfully, I was with Bodil from the moment she and Saega married. That boy, Garmund, he was mine. I think Saega knew it, which is why he always treated him so poorly. As soon as Bodil came to live with me, I treated the kid right."
Hiroc wasn't so sure about that. He'd heard about the kind of father Wulfnoth could be after a long night at the tavern. From the little he'd spoken to Garmund, neither Saega nor Wulfnoth had been good fathers to him.
"Then they took him. Garmund never did anything terrible on purpose. Sometimes he needed a clip over the ears, but nothing serious. Only reason the bakery burned down was because he was antagonized. People don't like the Talented, so I told him not to even so much as whisper a god's name. But he was never any good at obeying me. I went to Saega to ask for help, but he said no one was meant to help a Talented evade the inquisitors. Idmaer forbade it, he said. I always felt sorry for Saega, me taking his wife and all, but it infuriated me. I spent an hour arguing with him. By the time I went to find Garmund, the bakery was just a pile of smoking rubble, and the inquisitors had Garmund in the back of their wagon." Wulfnoth sniffled and wiped his nose with a sleeve.
Hiroc had never heard the story like that. He couldn't help feeling sorry for Wulfnoth. "Do you know which god called Garmund?"
"Enlil. Never heard of Enlil calling anyone before my son. It's always been Aern who called in these parts." He studied Hiroc, as though he were capable of reading thoughts. He smiled. "If for some reason you think someone you might know is called by Enlil, then I've got something special for you."
Hiroc held his breath as Wulfnoth knelt next to a cabinet and brushed aside straw from the ground. He pulled open a small trap door and removed something bundled in rags.
"This is a runic object," he said as he unwrapped the rags. "Only a devotee of Enlil or someone called by him can use it."
Once the bundles were removed, a tattered glove was revealed. It must have been the one Mildryd had talked about.
"Where did you get it?" Hiroc asked.
"Belonged to my wife. The second one, that is. Wasn't long after Bodil passed that Saega came looking for anything she might have taken after their separation, but I managed to keep hold of it."
Hiroc turned the glove over. It looked a little large. He desperately wanted to slip it on now, but doing so would give away his motives immediately.
"Runes along the palm lit up like a lamp whenever Garmund wore it. Care to try it on? It shouldn't light up. Not with an acolyte in the Holy Order of Aern. Unless Enlil's called you for his Talented." Wulfnoth raised an eyebrow.
Hiroc searched for a defense but came up empty. He shook his head, determined not to allow Wulfnoth to bait him. "I'll buy the glove."
Wulfnoth snatched it from Hiroc's hands and hugged it to his chest. "It's a family heirloom. The last memory of Garmund and Bodil."
"Enough coin to buy a dozen ales."
"Sold."
With the glove in hand, Hiroc stepped outside and went down the steps. He hid among the shadows along the side of Wulfnoth's house. He glanced around to make sure no one would see him and slipped on the glove. He was wrong about it being too big. It seemed to fit perfectly. An invocation to Enlil was on his lips as shouting came from the gates. It sounded like fighting.
The window creaked open above him. Wulfnoth popped his head out. "What's all that about?"
Hiroc quickly removed the glove and stuffed it into his robe pocket. He didn't know, but he intended to find out.
* * *
Four warriors surrounded a man in a gray cloak outside the gates. The only warrior Hiroc recognized was Bertram. He was pointing his sword at the cloaked man, a snarl on his face that suggested he might use it.
Hiroc's heart stopped. The last time he'd seen such a cloaked figure had been at Tyme's Hill. But this man was too short to be the giant.
At their feet were the ward circles. There were half a dozen ward circles inside the gates now. Edoma must have become more cautious. The ones the cloaked man was standing on were blindingly bright. But the man didn't look like a skinwalker. Those Hiroc had seen weren't shaped like humans, and this man was normal enough to be forgettable. He simply stood within the glowing ward circle, hands clasped together in a prayerful posture, oblivious to the armed men encircling him.
"Kneel," Bertram demanded.
The man stayed still. Bertram darted forward, his sword pommel slamming onto the man's head. The man dropped. The other warriors swarmed, binding the man's wrists. Another warrior ground the man's face into the cobblestone with his boot. The man wasn't struggling. Were it not for his open eyes, he would have appeared unconscious.
Those eyes locked onto Hiroc.
"He sure doesn't look like a skinwalker," one of the warriors said as he stepped away from the man, "but the wards burned brighter than I ever seen 'em burn."
Hiroc drew closer. Others had gathered to watch the event. All the while, the man's gaze
remained, drilling into Hiroc like a hot iron.
As the cloaked man was thrust to his feet, the sleeves of his garment lifted. Wards like those that marked the ground beneath him covered his skin from the wrist up.
A guard tore the cowl from the man's head. Blood trailed from his forehead where the warrior had struck him. His scalp was bald. But for this, he appeared normal, until the sun reflected off his pale dome.
Flowing wards circled the man's head and neck, shimmering in and out of existence as the sun caught their edges. For a moment, they were a shade of plum, only to transmute themselves into a deep sapphire, before vanishing again.
Kipp pushed his way past Hiroc. He must have been hiding among the crates in front of the guardhouse, watching the scene play out.
He grinned as the guard handed him a small coin purse. He pocketed the purse. "He says he's from north of Babon's Pass. No way that's true. No one's come from there since the Fatherless. I told him to meet me outside the gates, and he came sure enough." It was just like Kipp to sell someone out for some coin. Hiroc was starting to wonder how he'd ever called the man a friend.
"It is true," the man spoke, a strange accent punctuating his vowels. The accent was similar to the way Edoma spoke. "I am from the North, and I know what really happened at your altar."
Hiroc's eyes shot open. There were too many people listening. Too many who would learn the truth if this man happened to know it.
"That's enough out of you." Bertram punched the man in the face. His neck snapped back and his chin drooped. Hiroc breathed a sigh of relief as they bound the unconscious man.
"I'll take him to Idmaer's dungeons with the rest of the skinwalkers," Bertram said. "He hasn't changed yet, but it's only a matter of time."
The warriors dragged the man to a carriage.
"I see you've recovered," Kipp said as he came alongside Hiroc. He wore a smile, as though there was no bad blood between them. "I wouldn't have let Ealstan keep the skinwalker in the pit if I'd known he was intending on throwing you in there with it."
"You were cheering along with the others." Hiroc glowered.
"No need to be like that. We were just having a bit of fun."
"Get out of my way," Hiroc said, shoving Kipp aside. He started walking toward Idmaer's Spire.
There wasn't a chance the tattooed man was a skinwalker. The wards had illuminated beneath his feet, but it must have meant something else. He had said that he knew what happened at the altar. He'd said that while looking at Hiroc. Had he been referring to the shattered orb or the blue fire Hiroc had summoned?
Hiroc intended to find out.
30
Fryda
Fryda stared at the strange man as the warriors threw him into the back of a carriage.
Did he really know what had happened at Aern's altar?
He couldn't know. Not unless he was the giant. But he was no bigger than a normal man.
Then who was he?
The warriors cast wary glances at the man behind the carriage bars. She overheard whispers about the peculiar wards tattooed on his face. Without the cowl to hide them, they shimmered in a whirl of colors. They were similar to the wards Edoma painted. If the wards protected against wraiths, then the man couldn't possibly be possessed. Why then did the wards outside the gates activate when he had stepped on them?
Bertram glared at Fryda. Heart racing, she stepped back inside The Flaming Monkey. The vial of dragon blood rattled beneath her robes. Without Edoma to draw wards and empower them, she hadn't been able to use the blood. There would be no going after Alfric without wards powerful enough to sustain the journey.
This man with the tattooed wards might be able to tell her how to make the wards for herself. She wouldn't need Edoma's help then. It was a slim chance, but it was all she had.
She waited for the carriage to begin its ascent up the hill toward the spire. Hiking up her skirts, she ran for Alchemist's Alley. There were a few genuinely disreputable types in Indham, and they tended to congregate at either side of the misshapen alley. Even in a Daughter's robes, Fryda was vulnerable. Ignoring the catcalls, she kept her head down. Folk tended to leave you alone if you looked like you had somewhere to be.
Fryda passed the charred remains of the bakery. Because of people's opinion of the Talented and their cursed nature, no one had rebuilt it. She'd never known Garmund that well, but he'd been nicer than most to the Fatherless. She tried not to think too much about what terrible things the inquisitors might be doing to him now.
A brisk walk and a few swift turns later, she came to the archway that opened to the spire's rear. The carriage stopped outside the spire's garden. The plants were usually voluminous with flowers, but the wind had stripped all foliage from the branches. It afforded Fryda a perfect view as Bertram removed the prisoner from the back of the carriage. None of the other warriors helped. Bertram was yelling at them. Still, they refused.
Fryda didn't know how she would speak with the prisoner, but she had to try. She caught eyes with Bertram and spun behind the alley wall. The vial slipped from her pocket and clattered to the ground. Reaching out, she snatched it away. The crystal was untarnished. The blood seemed to ebb and flow as if it were alive.
"You looking for something?"
Fryda glanced up at Bertram. His gaze floated down to the vial in her hands.
"That's Mother Edoma's vial," he said. "What are you doing with it?" He placed a gloved hand on his sword hilt. "Give it to me."
Fryda only now noticed how quiet this particular part of Alchemist's Alley was. No one was around who might see this man cut her down and take the vial. The desire in Bertram's eyes suggested he would do almost anything to get it.
"Why do you want it?" she said. "It's worthless to you."
"I know dragon blood when I see it. That much would provide passage for me into Lamworth."
"You can't leave Indham without wards."
"Edoma wards us of the warrior's watch every night to guard the walls," he said with a smile. "I could simply slip out one night." Fryda thought to tell him that he wouldn't last more than a night with wards made from human blood, but decided not to. "The word is that Indham won't last much longer. Better to try and escape than stay here. Now, give it to me." He lifted his arm, and a section of the sword's blade gleamed out from the scabbard.
Fryda swallowed and handed over the vial. "Mother Edoma will hear of this."
"And you're going to tell her? You'd have to admit to stealing it. Jaruman isn't here to help you. You're lucky I don't have the time to deal with you like I want to. Go on back to where you came from, Fatherless." He nodded down Alchemist's Alley. Bertram marched back to the spire, pocketing the vial.
There was no real reason to follow Bertram now. Fryda had no dragon blood, nothing to use for wards so that she could find Alfric. She was struck by the utter hopelessness of her quest.
"Is it true what he said?" A man stumbled out from the shadows. His tunic was torn and spotted with stains. "Indham's not going to last?"
"I don't know," Fryda said, eying the strange gleam in the man's eye. She removed her hair pin, and her curls sprang free. She held the pin in a clenched fist.
"You are a beauty," he said. He continued forward, not seeming to care that she had the pin. "You're one of them Daughters. I bet you know all about what's going on here. We don't know a lick of it. But I reckon what that warrior said is true. If this place is going down, I intend to have some fun." The man licked his lips and made to grab her. Before he could, Fryda slammed the pin into the man's eye socket. It sank into his eye with ease. He screamed and clutched his face.
She paused, thinking to grab the pin. Instead, she ran as fast as she could to The Flaming Monkey.
31
Hiroc
Hiroc watched the warrior Bertram emerge from the entrance to the spire's dungeons. The man was walking with such purpose that he didn't notice Hiroc until they brushed past each other. Bertram jumped with a start.
"What
in Aern's name are you doing sneaking around?" His eyes were wide as they darted about the hall.
Hiroc raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't sneaking."
"You almost scared me to death." Bertram smoothed down his tunic with a shaky hand and muttered, "Bloody acolytes."
Hiroc looked over Bertram's shoulder, expecting to see the other warriors, but they weren't there. For some reason, Bertram had imprisoned the tattooed man alone. A foul stench drifted from his clothes.
"Has the prisoner been taken to a cell?" Hiroc asked, trying to ignore the rank odor.
"Any other reason why I'd be in this godforsaken place? It was terrifying to begin with, and now it's entertaining demons." Bertram closed his eyes and swallowed. After that, he seemed to have gained control of his fear. It was strange seeing Bertram afraid. He was normally well-composed to the point of arrogance. "There's a Fatherless waiting down there. Says Idmaer gave him the job of guarding the cells. I don't know why Idmaer employs them."
Hiroc narrowed his eyes. Bertram obviously wasn't aware of Hiroc's origins. With the runic glove inside his belt pouch, Hiroc could easily burn the man alive. It was a wicked thought, but one that brought a smile to Hiroc's face. Satisfied with his imaginary retribution, he stepped aside and held out his arm. "I should let you leave."
"Keep your eyes straight down there," Bertram said with a stern gaze. "You won't sleep for weeks otherwise. I got places to be. You know where that merchant lives now? The one who used to sell the good stuff, you know?"
Hiroc knew exactly the man Bertram was after. He'd sold potions, the kind that made you live in a dream for a time. There were folk addicted to the stuff in Alchemist's Alley. Thankfully, the potions maker had been thrown out of the town. "He's not in Indham anymore," he said.
"Just my luck." Bertram scowled. "There has to be someone else who wants to buy what I got."
The Shattered Orb (Vagrant Souls Book 1) Page 15
