It was Bowen who answered him. “We grieve, magician, but only as we can. Most often on the battlefield you don’t have time to dwell on the loss, because the next arrow or sword may be the one that kills you. Oren was shot in the back, yes, but he died in battle – an honorable death.”
“Oren died doing what he was trained to do, and the way he expected to,” said Gaen, unusually somber. “We’ve been careless, and that turned out to be a mistake.”
“An expensive one for Oren,” said Bowen irritably.
“That can’t be helped,” snapped Frayne. “We’re lucky we only suffered one casualty today. Everyone, let’s get some sleep, but starting tonight we stand watch in shifts. I’ll take the first watch. Luana, you take the next, and then Bowen. Tomorrow morning we head out as before, but now we know to be alert.”
They buried Oren several hundred yards away from the road in a large meadow, where Gaen said a few words before they left. The goblin carcasses they set on fire, leaving the stinking pile to burn as they walked away. Since they no longer had enough horses for everyone, they packed the mounts they had left with their supplies, and everybody walked. Jared told Joel that they were not far from Gerund, so the loss of the horses was not as great as it would seem. Though everyone was alert almost to the point of being paranoid, they had no more encounters the next day or the day after.
Perhaps because Frayne kept them to a fast, steady pace, the time passed relatively quickly. As they hiked, Joel began to notice a gradual change in the scenery. Conifers were becoming more prevalent, and there was a definite chill in the air when the group bedded down at night. There was also an odor of pine that permeated everything. Far, far off in the distance to the north, he could see snow-capped mountain peaks.
On the third day, Joel topped a rise on the road and found himself looking down on the seemingly deserted outskirts of a small town. Frayne immediately called a halt, though it was still only late afternoon. “We’ll make camp here for the night, and venture into town in the morning,” he said. “I have no desire to enter Gerund tonight.”
J’Mart and Joel both looked at Fender, but the Ramiken spoke first. “What’s up with Mr. Short and Stumpy?” he asked as the others began to set up camp. “What’s wrong with yonder village? He doesn’t seem the type to worry about getting in a bar fight after hours.”
Fender shook himself, as if he had been lost in thought. “He doesn’t want to go into Gerund after dark, and I don’t blame him. You’ll find that, perhaps because of its proximity to the Northern Wastes, Gerund is not a pleasant town. The people here tend to be a bit strange, if not downright unfriendly.”
“So why do they stay here?” asked Joel. “If the Wastes are as forbidding as everybody says, why live in a town this close to them?”
“Hard to say. The stories say that Gerund was founded by a man who imposed exile upon himself when his true love failed to return his affection. He wanted to get as far away from her as he could, but he was too afraid to venture into the Wastes. He set up a habitation here, and was soon joined by others who didn’t fit in to normal Asrian society and drifted north. Those who remain tend to share that outcast view. Some of Gerund’s inhabitants are hermits, others more dangerous. Thieves and pickpockets end up here, as do those merely seeking solitude. It’s an interesting mix of humanity.”
“Whew! How uplifting!” said J’Mart. “Such good stories you tell, magic man. Come on, Joel. Let’s see if you can still play that guitar of yours.”
Joel stared at the desolate town for a little while before he answered. “All right. I’ve gotta try it again sometime, I suppose. Fender, will you keep a close watch on what happens?”
“I’d be glad to,” the wizard answered. “I was hoping you’d pick it up again before too much time passed. Although your power is tremendous, without practice and training it will not do you much good, should you need to use your magic for any reason.”
After Athena and Bowen had hunted down a deer-like creature and everyone had eaten, Joel seated himself by the fire and, with much trepidation, took his guitar out of his case. Everyone else in the group watched silently as he settled it on his lap and strummed an E major chord, gritting his teeth.
Nothing happened aside from the usual instantaneous display of colors surrounding his hands. As he began to slowly and lightly play a twelve-bar blues rhythm, Joel realized that he had been missing the feeling of the musical magic. The effect on his nerves was calming, and it seemed to soothe the hurt he still felt about the loss of Oren and the violence they had experienced the other day.
As he warmed up, he began to experiment a little, first levitating a small stone next to the fire. When nothing untoward happened, he grew bolder, levitating first one and then all of his companions’ bedrolls several feet in the air before letting them slip to the ground. He saw that several of them smiled, a welcome change from the recent somber mood of the group. He played around with the music and the magic for more than an hour, not trying anything especially taxing, but giving himself the chance to trust his magic again.
At last he set down the guitar, spent, the lights and colors fading into the night and into the back of his mind. Several of the group were watching him, while Jared, Frayne and Luana were deep in a discussion across the fire. Fender, who had been watching carefully as Joel experimented, smiled at him and then turned to Gaen, who had also been watching. “Warmaster, I have been thinking. Do you remember the boy we left with the chief physician? Colin?”
Gaen nodded. “That reminds me – we left Beláin before the party I sent to Brin returned. Not that they would have found anything, I think. But why do you ask?”
“Because those creatures, the orcs and the eldars, attacked the Duke’s party just like that band of goblins attacked us. There is a similarity there that is bothering me, but other than the single-mindedness of the attacks, I can’t put my finger on it.”
As he finished, Fender began scratching in the dirt with a stick, making doodles, a habit he seemed to have acquired from J’Mart. As if realizing what he was doing, he put the stick down and produced his pipe from somewhere. It was soon alight, and as he puffed he started to wipe out his scratch marks.
Suddenly Joel saw something in the dirt. “Wait!” he said to Fender. “What is that?” Fender had scratched a symbol that was unmistakable to Joel:
Fender froze. “This? Why, this is the Duke of Brin’s insignia. Why?”
“Because that is an unmistakable musical character. It’s called a treble clef, and it’s used when you write music down. Where did it come from?”
It was Gaen who answered him. “That symbol has been the insignia of the family of Brin for hundreds of years. It’s anybody’s guess what its origin is.”
“Well, I’d be extremely interested to find out. If your world has never heard of music, what’s a distinctly musical symbol doing being used as a ducal seal? I’m sorry, but that seems like much more than a coincidence to me.” Joel turned to J’Mart. “Just how often does inter-world travel take place, anyway?”
The little man shrugged. “Impossible to say. Not like I – or anybody – keep tabs on who’s traveling where. But I can tell you what I told you before – world-walking’s tiring, and it takes a lot of power.”
“The traveler would have to have a pretty good reason for the journey, in my opinion,” said Fender. “From what I’ve read, you don’t just go on an interdimensional jaunt on a lark, unless you’re a Ramiken or a similar creature. Why, Joel? Do you think someone from your world visited Alera in the past?”
“Well, I don’t see any other explanation for that symbol. Even if music did exist here, which it doesn’t, it hardly seems likely that your civilization would have devised the same character to represent musical notation. It’s highly stylized and very specialized, as well.”
“Granted, but I don’t know who that traveler may have been. The original SongMaster, perhaps? The origin of the sigil is unknown, at least to me. Gaen?”
&
nbsp; The Warmaster, who had been listening, shook his head. “I have never heard of where it originated. Never thought to ask, either.”
J’Mart did a back flip and landed several feet in front of Joel. “So there’s your answer, music man. It’s a mystery you’re gonna have to solve sometime, but if I were you, I’d concentrate on reaching the big bad magic book first.”
Joel nodded. The mystery of the Duke’s treble clef would have to wait. He had other things to worry about first.
The symbol still bothered him, though, enough so that he knew he would have trouble sleeping. Knowing that, he offered to take the first watch. Frayne accepted his offer and told him to stay alert and to wake him at midnight for his shift. Joel nodded and settled himself to watch as the others lay down to sleep.
The night grew quiet quickly, and Joel’s thoughts wandered aimlessly as he looked up at the unfamiliar stars. A thought struck him, and he took out his pocketknife and found a suitable branch. He had never been much of a whittler, but he could make some passable items, and he often found that it helped him relax. He sighted down the branch and began to carve as he planned how the final item would turn out. J’Mart had disappeared again, so the only sound was an occasional owl or some unseen night creature.
“What are you making?”
Joel almost jumped out of his skin as Athena settled down next to him on the log. “Damn, you’re quiet!” he exclaimed. “You scared the hell out of me.” He immediately felt some butterflies settle in his stomach as she looked at him. He was not normally nervous around women, but Athena had a different effect on him that he was not used to experiencing. “Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?”
She shrugged noncommittally. “Couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d join you for a while. You didn’t answer my question.” She pointed at his half-formed creation. “What are you making?”
“It’s called a flute, or at least it’s my attempt at making one. It’s another musical instrument from my world. I had this half-baked idea of seeing if it would have the same powers that my guitar seems to have.”
“Interesting. ‘Half-baked?’ How do you bake an idea? Especially halfway?”
Joel chuckled. “You’re right – it sounds odd. It’s just a way of saying I had an idea I hadn’t thought all the way through but wanted to try anyway. Now that you’re here, though, and I am glad you’re here, I mean, I have an idea… That is…” He cursed at himself. Dammit! Just talk to her! She’s just another person. Though she just happens to be extremely beautiful and is helping to keep my butt alive on this other planet on which I have found myself.
“What I am trying to say,” he continued, ignoring her faint smirk, “is that I’d be interested to see if I can teach you to play it. And if you can play it, I wonder if you could manifest some magic.”
Athena nodded, a fascinated expression on her face. “I’d love to try to play your music, SongMaster. I doubt I’ll be able to do anything magic, however. I don’t think there’s any power in me.”
“Well, we’ll just have to see about that. I’m about halfway done, I think.” Glad for her company, Joel continued to carve as he talked with her about different styles of music and how they were played. The carving took longer than he had expected, however, and almost before he knew it the time had come to wake Frayne for his watch. The flute was still unfinished.
Athena leaned forward and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I enjoyed the talking, SongMaster,” she said. “And I look forward to trying your flute when you finish it.” With that, she rose, found her bedroll, and was soon asleep.
Joel woke Frayne and lay down himself. But his cheek was burning with the memory of her lips, and sleep was a long time coming.
ELEVEN
Gaen woke everyone early the next morning. Joel hadn’t slept well or nearly enough, but he picked up his guitar and almost effortlessly conjured himself a cup of coffee. He liked mirpoix, but he found himself craving a taste of home. He helped pack up after breakfast, and the sun had barely crested the horizon when they began the hike into Gerund.
As they entered the outskirts of town, the road was deserted. Joel noticed that the buildings, while not in ruins, were not well cared for. Most needed paint, and many looked as though they had been put together rather haphazardly. J’Mart, who had materialized on Joel’s shoulder as they walked into town, remarked on their appearance. “Kinda looks like Frank Lloyd Wright wandered through here on a bad acid trip, doesn’t it?” he asked Joel, who couldn’t help but chuckle. A few of his companions glanced at him, but they seemed to have become accustomed to Joel’s laughing and talking with nobody whom they could see.
His companions, for their parts, seemed ill at ease. Frayne looked as if he was ready for a fight at any moment, and Gaen and Jared were also extremely alert. As they progressed into Gerund, however, the townspeople began to appear, and Step and the others, while not completely relaxing, seemed to come down off of the knife-edge of tension.
The people of Gerund, while not outwardly unfriendly, eyed the strangers suspiciously. Joel supposed it was an odd sight to the townsfolk to see a group of armed men and women leading packhorses and walking into town. Nobody spoke to them, and the members of Joel’s party talked quietly amongst themselves. The houses began to appear closer together as they walked, and almost before he knew it was happening, Joel found himself in Gerund proper.
The first impression he got was that the town was dirty. “It could rain for a week in this place, and I don’t think it would get clean,” he said to J’Mart out of the side of his mouth. Both Gerund and its inhabitants were the same uniform shade of grey. Like the individual buildings’ haphazard construction, the streets did not seem to be laid out in any particular logical order. Joel saw that they were heading towards the center of town, but the winding, twisted streets soon had him completely confused.
They walked for another ten minutes through the city before Frayne stopped a young man pulling a cart filled with old, threadbare blankets. “Pardon me, but we’re looking for a place where we can stable our horses and get some provisions. Can you direct us?”
The young man looked at the group as if he had never seen more than three people travel together at once before. Finally he answered. “Yup. Two blocks that way. The Rogue’s Hall. Good food. Cheap. Stay away from Earl.” He turned and walked away, leaving Frayne standing in the middle of the street, looking rather foolish.
They found The Rogue’s Hall without too much trouble, and after haggling with the stable hand about prices and ensuring that their horses would be well cared for, Jared led them inside. Although the interior of the dining area looked as run down as the outside of the inn, Joel and the others sat down, hungry for lunch. An old, careworn barmaid made her way to the table.
“What’s it gonna be?” she asked through a toothless half-sneer. “We’s got no potatoes, so don’t ask.”
“A round of ale to start,” said Jared. “And then stew, I think, if it’s safe.”
“Safe as it is to wander north these days,” she cackled. “Ale, coming up.”
“Pardon me,” Fender spoke up when she returned several minutes later with ale for everyone in glasses that, while chipped, seemed clean enough. “We’re looking for someone that can take us north, through the Wastes. Can you tell us where we might find a guide?”
She peered at him strangely. “You’re serious? You wanna go north? Nobody goes north these days.”
“Why not?” asked Joel.
“Them’s strange things coming out of the Wastes lately,” she answered. “Things ain’t none of us seen before. Things you don’t really see, but you feel them. And them that do go into the Wastes, like as not they don’t come back.”
“I see,” said Fender. “So nobody goes that way at all anymore?”
“Not that I know of. Check at The Lucky Sword across town. Maybe the idiots are hanging out there these days. Now – you all want stew?”
Everyone reluctantly agreed, and she ma
de her way back to the kitchen to fill their order. Gaen leaned over toward Fender. “What now, magician? We’re dependent on finding someone to lead us through the Wastes. Without a guide, we’re as likely to get killed as get through them.”
“I know, I know,” responded Fender, running his fingers through his beard. “Let me think. We may have to check all of the taverns and bars and inns in town, but I can’t believe there are no guides left in town, even if there are strange things coming south lately.”
Just then, a cloaked figure that had been sitting by the fire rose and slowly made its way to their table. Athena and Frayne both rose, hands on their swords, as the figure approached.
“I hear you’re looking for a guide through the Wastes,” said the figure.
“That’s right,” said Frayne. “Know one?”
“I think I might be able to help you,” the figure said. “I’ve been known to travel that way a time or two.” Gnarled hands appeared from the sleeves of the cloak and pulled the hood back, revealing a frightening sight. Tufts of white hair sprouted at irregular intervals from the man’s battered, scarred skull. He had a long beard that disappeared into his cloak, and he looked to be around eighty.
Frayne stepped back a little in shock. “You? I mean, no offense, old man, but you don’t look like you’d be up to leading anyone through the Wastes.”
The old man shrugged. “You may think so. But I’ve been traveling in and out of the Wastes probably since before you were born. I know them like nobody else. There’s things in there I’ve slipped past more times than I can count, things that anybody else would walk right into. I know the lay of the land, and I can read its hills, valleys and bottomless holes. I speak the language of the Wastes.”
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