Between Their Worlds_A Novel of the Noble Dead

by Barb Hendee

  “We should assault their inn tonight,” Rhysís said, “and take them all.”

  Silence fell for the span of a few breaths. Rhysís had not spoken much since the previous night when Owain had returned without Wy’lanvi’s body. Apparently, Owain had gone back to the spot in the alley where Wy’lanvi had been assigned and found nothing. They all believed Brot’ân’duivé had taken the body.

  Dänvârfij hoped only that the aging greimasg’äh still held enough respect for his people’s burial customs. And if not, she could only pray that Wy’lanvi found his own way to their ancestors.

  “Why do they want the sage?” she asked of Én’nish.

  “I do not know,” Én’nish answered. “But they are determined. Brot’ân’duivé is helping them.”

  Another pause followed, and though Dänvârfij’s purpose, given by Most Aged Father, was to capture Magiere or Léshil, she began to wonder. The artifact had been removed from the ice-bound castle by those two, but Most Aged Father had also warned that the pair often relied on the sage for information. If those two now needed the sage so badly that Brot’ân’duivé assisted them, then the sage must know something essential.

  “Our first task is to gather information about the artifact,” Dänvârfij said slowly. “The sage may know more than Magiere or Léshil. That may help us understand how to handle it, once it is acquired. We will double our watch on the guild. When they come to retrieve the sage, we separate them, kill Brot’ân’duivé, and capture the others.”

  “No,” Fréthfâre said, shaking her head. “Rhysís is right. They are unaware that we know their location and would not expect an attack tonight. When the sun sets, we move . . . and then kill the traitor and take Magiere and anyone else possible. The sage is not worth risking the loss of such a chance.”

  The others present, including Rhysís, looked uncertain, but not because of the difference between the two plans. Not one of them would ever choose to go against a greimasg’äh, but for Fréthfâre to countermand Dänvârfij in front of everyone was another matter.

  Anmaglâhk functioned under a chain of command that began not with the highest or the eldest but with the first one given a purpose by Most Aged Father. That had been Dänvârfij. Even now, most of the others still looked on Fréthfâre as their wounded Covârleasa, though Most Aged Father had appointed someone new in her place back home. This shared command through Fréthfâre’s sway over the others had more than once proven a difficulty.

  Dänvârfij had no wish to further anyone’s embarrassment by partaking in an open argument. She simply resorted to a higher authority than her own.

  “If Magiere and Brot’ân’duivé want the sage so much,” she said, “Most Aged Father would want us to capture the sage, as well. She is currently locked inside a human castle—a stable, stationary target. I believe this is how Most Aged Father would counsel us.”

  Dänvârfij looked to Fréthfâre and found the ailing woman studying her in return. For how could Most Aged Father’s one-time prime counselor counter what he would obviously have advised?

  “I could contact Most Aged Father and ask him . . . if you prefer,” Dänvârfij suggested.

  Fréthfâre’s expression tightened slightly, but not from pain. She knew exactly where that would lead. All that would come of it would be delay, and that would not sit well once Most Aged Father heard the facts.

  “Unnecessary,” Fréthfâre replied. “But we will wait for them to go after the sage . . . and then take them all at the same time.”

  Dänvârfij nodded politely, as if this had been a joint decision. It was the one she had sought all along.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE FOLLOWING NIGHT, Chane again paced his room. Shade lay on the bed, equally agitated, watching him. By now, the message he had sent to the temple of Feather-Tongue at Dhredze Seatt should have been passed onward to its final destination. Once read by its recipient, something—or nothing—might come of it.

  Chane was tired of waiting to find out.

  Magiere, Leesil, and Chap likely sought their own way to get to Wynn, but he was determined to do so first. Yet although that was his foremost concern, he could not stop wondering if Chap had sensed his presence after following Shade. If so, would Chap bring his companions to hunt for an unknown undead?

  Chane had promised Wynn to avoid them, so if they came, he would have to run. He would then be entirely cut off, without a place for her to reach him. He had wondered if Magiere or Chap were even now waiting in the nearby streets for anything they could sense. He tried to put this out of his head.

  Last night, he and Shade had gone to scout the guild from the shadows. Two city guards walked separate half circuits on the bailey wall. One more stood inside the portcullis, and one or two had to be in the gatehouse tower to man the gears. And this could not be the full count. If Captain Rodian was under orders to guard the grounds, he had brought more men than were visible.

  There was a time when Chane would have simply scaled the walls and killed anything in his way. It would have been so much easier.

  He had noticed one strange event while he and Shade lurked near the western corner of Old Bailey Road. He had been studying the keep’s heights for signs of more guards when Shade huffed and directed his attention down the street.

  At well past night’s first bell, a wagon rolled onto Old Bailey Road at its southern corner and headed straight for the keep’s bailey gate. The portcullis rose even before it arrived, and a city guard and a sage in midnight blue came out to open the bailey gate and let the wagon in. The vehicle was heavily laden, its cargo hidden beneath a lashed canvas tarp.

  In the time Chane had spent among the sages, he had never seen a supply wagon arrive at night. Of course he could not have seen any arriving in daylight, but he had never even heard of nighttime deliveries before. He wished he could have learned more of this—although it was a minor puzzle among greater concerns, and he remained inside his room as much as possible. He was too afraid that he might miss . . .

  A very heavy knock at the door halted Chane’s pacing. He tensed with hope as Shade jumped off the bed. Chane was not certain who stood on the other side of that door, and he picked up his sword, pulling the dwarven steel blade from its sheath.

  “Where do all-eaters guard the bones of the lost and forgotten?” he asked softly through the door.

  “In Bäalâle Seatt,” a low voice answered from outside.

  Only one person besides him and Wynn knew the answer, as well as that ancient Dwarvish reference to mythical dragons: the gí’uyllæ, the all-eaters.

  Chane jerked open the door and looked down.

  A wide, solid dwarf stood there, filling the doorway. He was beardless, something uncommon among their males, with red hair that flowed to the shoulders of an iron-colored wool cloak tied about his thick neck. He no longer wore a stonewalker’s black-scaled armor, but along with a double-wide sword sheathed on his hip, he carried a stout iron staff as tall as Chane.

  Chane noted the burnt-orange wool tabard through the split of the visitor’s cloak. The dwarf had once again “disguised” himself as a holy shirvêsh of Bedzâ’kenge—Feather-Tongue, the Eternal, the saint, of dwarven history, tradition, and wisdom.

  “Ore-Locks,” Chane whispered, not even bothering to hide his relief.

  Ore-Locks held up Chane’s message and cocked his head. “You sent for me?”

  Safely locked inside their room at the inn, Leesil unrolled the newer Belaskian talking hide as he knelt down on the floor. Magiere crouched down on one side of him and Chap sat on the other. He had just returned from another outing with Brot’an.

  Magiere was already fed up with how little they’d related of what they’d found during each scouting trip. Leesil now felt ready to share with the others. In the time that had passed since Chap’s incident with the mob, a good deal had happened. For one, Leesil was still unsettled by what Chap had told them.

  Shade was no longer with Wynn. Chap had tracked his daughter in
to a nearby neighborhood, where he’d sensed an undead near a broken-down inn. They would soon have to look into that. If they didn’t, Leesil might have to fight Magiere to keep her from taking off to do so on her own.

  Just knowing that Wynn was completely alone served to drive all of them, especially Magiere, to focus on freeing the sage. Once Wynn was safe, Leesil would deal with Magiere hunting an undead in a city crawling with anmaglâhk hunting her. He glanced quickly at his wife and finished rolling out the talking hide.

  Brot’an stood near the window, which he’d opened a crack so he could hear anything outside. But he watched everyone in the room, mostly Magiere. Osha and Leanâlhâm sat cross-legged against the wall across from Leesil, and Leanâlhâm peered down at the hide with deep curiosity.

  There was no one on the roof, as Leesil expected everyone to be present. They all had a part to play concerning the other item on the floor: a broad piece of scrap cloth depicting a crude, charcoal-drawn layout of guild grounds.

  “You think we ready . . . go tomorrow night?” Osha asked hopefully.

  “Yes,” Leesil answered, for he and Brot’an had been busy.

  It still unsettled him more than he cared to admit how easy it had been to both scout and plan with Brot’an. Leesil hadn’t consulted Magiere, and with good reason. She wouldn’t like what they’d devised for her part in all of this.

  Magiere’s strengths lay in unyielding, blind determination. She would throw herself headlong at anything that got between her and those she loved. She was not subtle, and not half as devious as she liked to think—not like him. Where she was heated by fury, he could be coldly vicious when necessary.

  “Good,” Osha said. “Where start?”

  Magiere glanced sidelong at Leesil and raised one eyebrow. He took in the sight of her beautiful, pale face, her mass of near-black hair with shots of bloodred glowing by the room’s candle lantern. He felt the same sense of wonder he always had when he really looked at her. But he was in for a battle now—with her.

  “Brot’an and I will start here,” he said.

  He reached out to the cloth map, pointing to a section of the bailey wall at the keep’s back.

  “You . . . and Brot’an?” Magiere asked too quietly, like the deceptive calm at the eye of a hurricane.

  Chap snarled and huffed twice—loudly.

  “There’s no other way,” Leesil rushed on. “He and I are the only ones skilled at infiltration. The anmaglâhk will be watching the guild, probably from more than one angle. Brot’an and I can’t deal with that and the guards at the same time . . . or at least not when it comes time to remove Wynn.”

  He looked intently at Magiere. “You, Chap, Osha . . . and Leanâlhâm . . . have to run a distraction.”

  “Leanâlhâm?” Magiere repeated, her expression turning darker. “She’s not going anywhere near this!”

  Leesil hesitated. Deceit was his most ingrained skill, and lying came as easy as breathing to him, but not with her . . . he didn’t lie easily to Magiere. But it was the only way to get her to do as he wanted.

  “She can’t stay here alone, unprotected,” he said. “And we’re going to need someone of suitable size and build for this ruse . . . someone smaller than the rest of us.”

  It was only half the truth, and that was nearly always the best lie. With Leanâlhâm in plain sight, she might be safer than left alone in this room. In turn, Magiere wouldn’t let the girl go without her, and that would keep Magiere out of the way. Leesil also wanted no killing in this exploit.

  It stuck in his gut that Magiere was his first concern in that rather than Brot’an. If things got too intense around her, there was a risk that . . .

  Magiere already looked suspicious, and Leesil knew this wasn’t over when she pivoted on one knee.

  “What’s the rest of it?” she demanded. “You’re not going to—”

  “I will help,” Leanâlhâm cut in.

  Everyone looked at her, and Leesil stifled a sigh of relief. Leanâlhâm took a hard swallow under all the scrutiny, but finally looked at Leesil and hesitantly leaned forward.

  “I want to help Wynn,” she said, sounding almost eager.

  Magiere’s mouth hung halfway open. Then she snapped her jaw shut, as if uncertain whom to shout at next. Osha, however, was frowning at Leesil.

  “I not go with you?” he asked, displeasure plain in his broken words.

  “No,” Leesil answered, “because Magiere and Chap . . . and especially Leanâlhâm . . . are going to need you.”

  He had to turn this entire gathering back to the plan, and he quickly pointed to the bailey gate on the map.

  “Brot’an and I have been watching the rotation of the guards. There are also loaded wagons coming regularly at the same time each night. They are always allowed through the portcullis.”

  Leesil glanced at Magiere. There was no less anger in her face, but she was looking at the map now.

  “Always?” she asked.

  Leesil glanced the other way at Chap, who was rumbling low in discontent, but he rushed on while he still had them distracted.

  “All that matters is getting Wynn out,” he said, “and making sure she can’t be caught in the process. So there’ll be no fits about who’s to do what.”

  He waited for another argument, but it didn’t come. Brot’an had been silently watching all this. The two of them had already agreed that Leesil should take the lead in this mixed group; he was the one the others might equally trust.

  “It will work,” he added, soft but firm. “But it will take all of us. We must all know our parts.”

  Chap began pawing the Belaskian letters on the talking hide.

  “What does he say?” Magiere asked.

  Leesil sighed. “He says he’s not throwing a fit.”

  Chap wrinkled his jowls but dropped his haunches back to the floor.

  “Are you ready to listen?” Leesil asked him, but then looked at Magiere.

  No one said a word.

  “All right, then, this is how it’s going to work. . . .”

  When Chane finished explaining, Ore-Locks shook his head in astonishment.

  “The sages would imprison one of their own?” he said. “If even half of what you say is true, then yes, we need to get her out.”

  “You doubt me?” Chane asked, not truly offended.

  He had spent a fair bit of time relating the whole story of the past few days and nights. It was unsurprising that Ore-Locks had doubts without knowledge of how much Wynn had been through with the guild before now.

  “No,” Ore-Locks hurried to say. “I did not mean . . . just a figure of speech.”

  Not too long ago, Ore-Locks would not have cared a whit about offending Chane. Perhaps to both their surprise, they had become allies, if not friends. After they had located the orb at Bäalâle Seatt, Ore-Locks had taken it into safekeeping in the underworld of the Stonewalkers. The dragons, the all-eaters, had demanded that Ore-Locks become keeper of their orb.

  “Once we get Wynn out,” Ore-Locks went on, “where will you take her? She will not be safe here in this city. Perhaps not even inside Malourné’s borders.”

  Chane had not thought that far ahead, and he glanced at Shade. She merely whined once. Neither of them had thought much further than freeing Wynn. Where would they go? Not only would the Premin Council be hunting for Wynn, they would likely use the city guard, as well.

  “Dhredze Seatt might be safe for a while,” Ore-Locks suggested. “But not at the temple of Feather-Tongue. Head Shirvêsh Mallet has ties to the guild. Perhaps in the underside of one of the settlements.”

  Chane was tempted. Of all places he had been in recent years, he had felt most at ease in the underground half of the dwarves’ world—despite the fact that his height made him stand out too much. Ore-Locks’s suggestion was welcome, but Chane viewed it as a fallback position. If he and Wynn were to find the remaining orbs, she needed access to resources that could help her translate the scroll. He did not know
what she had in mind for their next step, but he doubted that she would agree to hide in a remote dwarven settlement. She was nothing if not focused . . . or outright stubborn.

  She was determined to locate every orb before agents of the Ancient Enemy found them first. Chane had sworn to himself that her mission was his mission. But he also struggled with how to retrieve something desperately precious to him—for her.

  Premin Hawes still possessed The Seven Leaves of Life and the muhkgean mushrooms and anasgiah flowers he had acquired. He was not leaving without them. And he still did not know what Wynn would want to do about Magiere, Leesil, and Chap.

  That worried him the most. What did that trio’s return mean for his future with Wynn?

  Suddenly, the thought of vanishing into a dwarves’ mountain with Wynn became more appealing. He would never admit it, but he was glad Ore-Locks had come to help. Chane had no one else to call on, and he could not do this alone.

  “Dhredze Seatt it is,” he finally answered, “but first we have to get Wynn.”

  “When?” Ore-Locks asked.

  Shade’s ears perked up at that.

  “Tomorrow night,” Chane answered. “We will be ready by then.”

  He rose and went to his pack, pulling out a torn sheet of paper and a charcoal writing stick. He knelt before Ore-Locks and waved Shade over, and began sketching an outline of the guild’s grounds.

  “We begin here,” Chane said, pointing to the keep’s front and glancing at Ore-Locks. “Considering some of your skills, the first step will be the easiest.”

  Ore-Locks and Shade leaned in to listen.

  CHAPTER 13

  LATE THE FOLLOWING night, Magiere hid inside an alley’s mouth several blocks southwest of the Old Bailey Road loop. Chap stood at her side, peering around the building’s corner into the open street, with Osha and Leanâlhâm just behind them. Magiere let out a slow breath that turned to vapor in the chill night.