The Jewel of Turmish

by Odom, Mel

  The impact of the wolf’s body crashing against him knocked Haarn from his feet. Haarn rolled, controlling his body and coming to his knees. There was no hesitation within him as he struck, no more confusion over what he was supposed to do. His knife blade flicked across the wolf’s withers, opening a long cut over his hipbone.

  Coughing, fatigued, and hurting, Stonefur yelped in anger and rolled to his feet while Haarn was still on the ground.

  Haarn focused on the wolf’s great body, knowing Stonefur outweighed him. The druid poised, on one knee and the other foot beneath him, watching as the wolf recognized the opportunity.

  Muscles rippled under the wolf’s bloodied fur. Claws dug for traction on the muddy ground. Clods flew behind Stonefur as the wolf hurtled toward the druid.

  Haarn waited then shifted to the right and ducked. Still moving, he ripped the blade across the wolf’s exposed abdomen. Thick, salty blood poured down onto Haarn.

  Graceful in spite of the mortal wound, Stonefur landed. His ribs flexed, and the gaping wound in his abdomen showed. The wolf’s entrails started to spill from within.

  You’ve killed me, Stonefur snarled.

  He lapped at his wound but gave up the effort. His muzzle came away stained and dripping crimson that washed away in the stormy downpour.

  “Yes,” Haarn said in his own voice, knowing the wolf would understand just the same. At this moment of death, there could be no lies between them. “You disrupted the balance. There was no other way to end this.”

  Weakened and hurting, Stonefur came at the druid again. His clawed feet dug into the earth.

  Haarn tried to dodge out of the way, knowing he only had to stay alive a little while longer before the wolf’s life played out, but in his weakened condition he couldn’t move as fast. He shifted, intending to throw himself to the side, but his right foot slipped in the mud and went skittering away beneath him. Instinct made him drop the club and try to catch himself. When he made a frantic grab for the fallen weapon, he realized it was too late.

  Stonefur crashed into Haarn, knocking the druid back, slavering jaws reaching for his throat. The foul stench of the wolf’s breath invaded Haarn’s senses and seared his cheek. The rough, raspy tongue raked along Haarn’s jaw.

  Shifting to protect his wounded midsection, Haarn brought the knife up in a short, tight arc. He felt the tip glide along the wolf’s ribs, then sink home.

  Pain froze Stonefur as he lay atop Haarn. The druid felt the blood-slick and rain-matted fur against his hand where he’d driven the knife to the hilt. At least two or more inches of steel had pierced the wolf’s heart.

  Blood leaked from Stonefur’s flaring nostrils and mouth. A choking sound rumbled in his throat. Lightning strobed the heavens again, but there was little left in the wolf’s eyes to light. Rattling sounded in his lungs and the great beast grew heavier.

  I die, Stonefur gasped.

  Yes.

  Sorrow and pain ached in Haarn’s chest. He no longer tried to hold the wolf from him, and knotted his fingers in the bloodied fur to hold him close.

  No! the wolf bitch roared. Not kill Stonefur! Not let!

  Knowing the wolf was coming from the slick spatter of paws against the stones and mud, Haarn tried to push Stonefur’s great weight from him. The wolf’s ribs trapped Haarn’s knife, leaving him unarmed as he shoved to his feet.

  The wolf bitch leaped the last six feet, aiming herself at the druid.

  Haarn reached out and caught her muzzle, trapping it in his hands.

  She has life within her, he thought. They are Stonefur’s get, and they hold the promise of greatness.

  The wolf bitch’s weight pushed him back into the mud. She snarled and growled, but the effort came out strangely through her trapped muzzle.

  Wounded and battered as he was, Haarn wasn’t certain he could survive her attack. Her grief and hunger, and the protective urges that filled her from the pups being so close to being born, made her overpowering. She squirmed and struggled to get her jaws free. Her claws raked at his chest, then a shudder passed through her and she stopped.

  Staring into the feral eyes only inches from his own, feeling the strength drain from the wolf bitch, Haarn felt a new fear dawn in him.

  “No!”

  The wolf bitch slumped to the side, propelled by a booted foot. A long sword jutted from the wolf bitch’s side.

  “No,” Haarn repeated through a dry throat. He stared up at Druz Talimsir. “Do you know what you’ve done, woman?”

  She frowned, leaning on the long sword and twisting it to widen the wound that had killed the wolf bitch.

  “I saved your life,” said Druz.

  “Get away from her. Now!”

  Confusion darkened Druz’s rain-soaked features. She withdrew her sword but remained close by.

  “By Tymora’s skirts, but you are a hard one to understand. She had you. She would have killed you.”

  “No, she wouldn’t have. I could have handled her.” Haarn took in a deep breath as he forced himself into a kneeling position.

  Dazed and bleeding, Haarn stared at the dead wolf as he rolled to his knees. He stretched his hands out, calling on the power that Silvanus had entrusted in him. Many druids had the power to heal wounds. As he laid his hands on the wolf, he felt and heard the last breath go out of her. The convulsive shudder that shook her shivered through him.

  “What are you doing?” Druz sounded incredulous.

  “I would heal her if I could,” Haarn said, “but she’s beyond anything I can do.”

  “That’s stupid,” Druz said. “Tymora’s blessing on fools and children. Even if you did heal her, she’d only go for your throat again.”

  Haarn ignored Druz’s words. Saving the wolf bitch was beyond him, at least in his present condition. He stared at her sides, seeing the movement caused by the pups struggling in her womb. Making his decision, he forced himself to stand, placed a boot on Stonefur’s body, and yanked his knife free. Turning, he crouched, struggled with his balance and unfocused vision, and plunged the knife into the wolf bitch’s body.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Brother Tohl held fast to the side of the small wagon he and Effrim had liberated from the meager resources the Temple of the Trembling Flower had at their disposal. The wagon, though serviceable, had seen better days. The rudimentary spring struts had long since given out, making for a rough ride through the pitted back roads Tohl directed the younger priest to follow. A lantern mounted at the side of the wagon swayed as the ironbound wheels crashed over the rain-filled potholes, and still more rain came down in solid sheets.

  Over the sound of the rain and the cart Effrim said, “Maybe it would be better if we alerted the city guard.”

  “No,” Brother Tohl responded, already drenched even though he wore his best traveling leathers.

  “We are only six priests,” Effrim said.

  “I pray to Eldath that we are enough,” Tohl said through chattering teeth.

  The horses’ iron-shod hooves struck fire from the ill-fitted paving stones. Rarely more than a few people were out on the streets so late at night, and the storm had driven most of them indoors. Only a few sailors just now come up from the docks braved the fierce rain. None of them gave more than a moment’s notice to the racing wagon.

  In the back of the wagon, the other priests prayed in low voices that scarcely rose above the clattering horses’ hooves. All of them were old, in their last years of service to Eldath. Sadly, Tohl knew the Quiet One’s influence had ebbed. Few on dry land were drawn to Eldath, though worship of the goddess flourished among the sea elves and others deep within the Sea of Fallen Stars. After the dream, though, and the revelations it had brought, Tohl knew Eldath had not abandoned them. He blinked water from his eyes and squinted through the rain.

  “There,” he said, spotting the entrance to the graveyard where Borran Klosk had been entombed all those years ago.

  He pulled his traveling leathers tighter around him as he saw the
gloom and bleakness that clung to the place.

  Effrim pulled on the reins, guiding the horses toward the path overgrown with weeds and brush. The horses stumbled at the graveyard’s entrance. Effrim laid the lash across their backs and talked to them. Showing flat-eared reluctance and snorting in fury, the horses paused a moment more at the entrance then raced forward again as if dashing into a clearing.

  The wagon jumped and bucked as it careened across the broken ground. Many of the graves had sunken over the long years, creating coffin-sized pits that held water inches deep. Effrim was hard pressed to keep the horses under control.

  Lightning stabbed down from the sky and touched a grave ornament ahead of them. The iron rod shaped like a budding flower encircled by a sunburst symbolized Chauntea, the Great Mother. The lightning shone white-hot for a moment then faded away, leaving the superheated metal glowing cherry red and smoking in the rain.

  “That was close,” Effrim said.

  The glowing metal dimmed a little as they passed. Effrim brought the wagon to a halt in front of the tomb. The horses stamped and surged against the traces.

  Tohl hoped it was the cold and rain that made the horses restless, but as he gazed up at the tomb, he knew it was likely something else that scared them. Steeling himself, the old priest stepped over the wagon’s side and dropped to the muddy ground.

  “Brother Tohl,” Brother Micahan whispered as he joined Tohl. “There is the possibility that if Borran Klosk did rise from his coffin, he might already be gone.”

  Tohl studied Micahan’s cowled visage. Micahan was old and thin from lean years and hard work. His hands had started shaking these past few years and grew worse with each passing season.

  “If Borran Klosk is gone,” Micahan continued as rainwater dripped from his hooked nose, “what will we do then?”

  “We will try to follow his trail, Brother Micahan, to the best of our abilities.” Tohl replied, whispering as well, not wanting his voice to carry too far into the tomb. It was a childish fear, he knew, but it was also one he couldn’t escape.

  Micahan nodded and whispered, “As Eldath wills in her wise generosity.”

  “Praise be those days that I can continue to give to those less fortunate,” Tohl quoted.

  He turned from the elder priest and hefted the mace he’d brought from the temple. It had been years since he’d taken up a weapon. The weapon felt clumsy and crude in his hands.

  Effrim handled his own warhammer with certain skill. He practiced most mornings, but even he, the youngest and most physically able among them, didn’t display too much confidence in his combat skills.

  All of them gathered around Tohl as another lightning streak seemed to set the sky on fire. As the white brilliance flickered above them, Tohl studied the men gathered before him. They had believed in him enough to rise from their beds, endure the cold, whipping rains, and lay their lives on the line to fight a monster.

  Tohl had never experienced anything like that moment with them, and he was disappointed when words failed him. With all the blessings and prayers and counseling he’d done over the years, something should have come to him.

  “Eldath willing,” he said finally.

  “Eldath willing,” the priests whispered around him.

  Holding his mace in one hand, Tohl lifted the lantern from the wagon and turned toward the tomb. The others followed, none of them speaking.

  At the top of the stairs, about to enter the building, Tohl turned when he heard the wagon surge into motion behind him. He watched in disbelief as the horses tore through the graveyard back in the direction they’d come. Before they’d covered half the distance, one of the horses stepped in a deep hole and went down. Tohl heard the snap of breaking bone even over the distant echo of thunder. The falling horse took down the other animal as well, causing the wagon to slam into both of them and overturn. When the wagon settled against the ground, neither of the horses moved.

  “Effrim,” Tohl said.

  At once, the younger man peeled away from the group and raced across the graveyard. Tohl watched Effrim check both animals then run back to the tomb steps.

  “Dead,” Effrim said when he returned. His breath was tight in his throat. “Both animals.”

  “It’s an omen,” Bowdiek whispered, then stopped himself.

  “Or a sacrifice Malar himself arranged,” Vhoror commented.

  Tohl forced doubt from his mind and said, “It’s nothing more than bad luck. Come on.”

  He stepped into the tomb and held the lantern high, leaning on the certainty that Eldath watched over him. The dream had tied him to Borran Klosk and brought about personal attention from the Quiet One. He tried to keep that in mind.

  The lantern light bathed the outer chambers, highlighting the disuse and neglect of the tomb. A slithering noise echoed through the darkness. The sound made Tohl’s skin prickle.

  “What was that?” Vhoror asked.

  Tohl stopped when the sound reached his ears, and the others had stopped with him. Holding the lantern high, the mace gripped in his hand, Tohl examined the rooms that lay before them. Only the flickering shadows moved there, but he couldn’t help thinking how evil often chose to cloak itself in the raiment of night.

  “It’s nothing,” Tohl said a couple of breaths later, when the sound wasn’t repeated.

  He continued forward and discovered the broken door that led to the record keeper’s room.

  “Someone has been here,” Effrim said.

  Studying the rotted wood, Tohl said, “That could have been done days, even tendays ago.”

  Effrim squatted and touched a clump of matter on the floor. His finger came away stained. “Mud. It’s fresh, and from the shape it looks like someone tracked it in from outside.”

  Despite his growing fear, Tohl stepped through the broken doorway, letting the lantern guide his way. He said a silent prayer to Eldath, asking the goddess to watch over him. The lantern light filled the small room.

  No one was there.

  Tohl gazed at the section of floor that hid the passageway to the secret tomb. A feeling of relief washed over him when he saw that the stone was still in place.

  “The tomb hasn’t been disturbed,” Vhoror whispered. “We can go.”

  “No.” Tohl’s throat felt phlegmy and thick, making him force the word out.

  “Brother Tohl.” Vhoror spoke in that precise way of his that grated on the nerves. Over the years, he’d shown his skill in the way of an argument. “We have seen that the tomb has not been disturbed. Our work here is done.”

  “No,” said Tohl, “we have seen that the entrance to the hidden tomb is closed, but we don’t know that Borran Klosk’s tomb is likewise undisturbed.”

  As soon as Tohl spoke the mohrg’s name, a cold, wet wind whipped through the front of the tomb and wound through the room until it reached the priests. Even protected as it was behind glass panes, the lantern flame danced in wild abandon, and the priests’ shadows performed mad capers on the walls.

  “We should leave this place,” Micahan whispered, drawing in on himself.

  “After,” Tohl said, “I have talked with the Quiet One.”

  “You were dreaming,” Vhoror accused.

  Stifling the anger that rushed to mix with the fear that filled him, Tohl said, “If I dreamed I spoke with Eldath, then I also dreamed the mohrg has been released from his prison. You have nothing to fear from such a dream, Brother Vhoror.”

  Vhoror showed no shame at the rebuke. His eyes flickered with anger, and Tohl knew no matter how this night turned out that Vhoror would exact some price for the affront.

  “As you wish, Brother Tohl,” Vhoror said. “It appears you’ve gotten us all up from needed sleep and seen us soaked to the skin without need.”

  Tohl turned from the other priest and crossed the room to the section of false floor. He tapped the floor with his mace and it made hollow echoes on the other side. Nothing else sounded. Feeling a little better, he went to the record ke
eper’s desk and shoved it to one side so that he could get at a hidden place in the wall. When he had the small compartment open, he hung the mace from a strap around his wrist and removed the two hooks from within.

  Returning to the false floor, Tohl handed the lantern to Effrim, laid the mace beside the stone section, and slid the hooks into place. The floor section was heavier than he remembered, but he stayed at the task until the stone lifted from the opening.

  The stench of death wafted from the secret tomb, made thicker by the storm’s humid air. Thunder cracked outside and the noise drummed into the building, echoing once again below. The noise made the secret tomb sound cavernous.

  “I smell blood,” Vhoror said.

  Tohl took the lantern from Effrim. Both of them trembled. Tohl guided the lantern toward the yawning opening and the complete blackness beyond.

  “Did you not hear me?” Vhoror demanded. “I said I smell blood.”

  “Yes, brother,” Tohl said, “the monster’s tomb has ever been steeped in the stink of blood.”

  “It’s fresh blood,” Vhoror insisted.

  Tohl thrust his arm into the hole and felt a wet coil of wind slither up his sleeve.

  “At the very least,” Vhoror continued, “that scent will draw other undead to this crypt. Those foul things that cling to the remnants of the Whamite Isles at times get caught in currents and are washed up here. If they scent this, they will come.”

  Tohl scanned the spiral staircase that led to the rooms below. Nothing moved on it.

  “We’re priests, Brother Vhoror,” said Tohl. “If the undead come, Eldath, in her infinite wisdom, has seen fit to give us the power to turn such creatures. Perhaps we will save others who would fall prey to their untender mercies.”

  “You’re being foolish.”

  “I’m following my belief,” Tohl responded.

  He gathered himself then stepped down into the opening. Keeping the lantern high, he followed the spiral staircase down. Effrim followed him next, and the other priests trailed after with obvious reluctance. Vhoror brought up the rear.

  The spiral staircase shifted with a sudden groan and a shriek that felt like fingernails along Tohl’s spine. He stopped and wondered if the staircase was going to collapse.