Salvation (Scars of the Sundering Book 3)

by Hans Cummings

  Kale stood, staring at her, his mouth agape. She heard Ori scramble and take cover behind a piece of furniture.

  “Where have you been?” She dropped her staff and ran to her brother, grabbing him by the shoulders. “Why didn’t you come straight home last night?”

  “I… we did.” Kale spread his wings as he clasped his sister’s arms. He looked past her to Ori. “What did you tell her?”

  A mewling whimper was Ori’s only response.

  Kale’s eyes widened, and a grin overtook his face. “He… he told you I was not home, right?”

  Laughter wracked his body as he squirmed to escape Delilah’s grasp. She pushed her brother out of the way and retrieved her staff. Ori scrambled to avoid her as she snarled and stalked him around the room.

  “You lied to me.”

  “Oh. No! I—it—told—”

  “Deli!” Kale caught Delilah’s arm as she passed and stifled his mirth long enough to explain the situation.

  The drak sorceress clenched her teeth. “You told him to tell me you weren’t home?”

  Her brother shook his head.

  I wish he’d shake that stupid grin off his face.

  “I didn’t think you’d be here straightaway. I told him to tell anyone who came around that we weren’t home yet.”

  “What’s going on out there? Can’t you all be quiet?” Kali’s shouts from the bedchamber silenced them.

  Delilah seized the interruption to pull her brother close and whisper in his ear, “I came to see it and talk to you. Where is it?” She hoped Ori was out of earshot.

  “Downstairs, Deli.”

  The drak sorceress left her brother to deal with Ori and proceeded down the stairs toward the cavern. She ran her hand along the bookshelves lining the staircase, disappointed she never seemed to have time to discover what secrets the dusty tomes contained. When she entered the cavern, the sconces flared to life.

  Kale had nestled the egg against the wall, shoring it up with hunks of debris and rocks. Delilah knelt alongside it and ran her hands over its pebbly skin. She felt the life within it—the grandchild of a god. The dragon egg itself, albeit much larger, seemed not much different than a drak egg.

  Who was the father? Had she been keeping this egg since before The Sundering? I wonder if she even put up a fight or if Manless caught her asleep.

  The creak of the cellar door tore her away from her thoughts. Delilah stood and turned to spot her brother descending the steps. She found his lopsided smile irritating.

  “You sure gave Ori a scare.”

  She examined the runed circle in the center of the room rather than face her brother. Deciphering what it all meant and how it all worked required more time than she could spare right now.

  “So, what’s your plan for the archmage, Deli?”

  She traced one of the runes with a claw. “I’m going to challenge him to a duel.”

  Kale snickered, but it was laughter of disbelief, not of amusement. “You’re what?”

  “The Rite of Combat, enacted by Gerald the Craven as set down in the third series of essays entitled Arcane Rules: Civilized Magickry.” She stood and faced her brother.

  “He’s an archmage, Deli.” Kale took his sister’s hands. His smile disappeared, replaced by furrowed brows and a frown. His hands felt hot, but she did not pull away.

  “I’m not an apprentice, Kale. I’ll bet I was slinging spells in combat when he was still a novice. Back home, I was one of the most powerful sorcerers in Drak-Anor, if not the most.” Even now, she felt magic flowing through the world as easily as a farmer smelled honeysuckle on a spring breeze. “And I’ve learned much since we left.”

  She withdrew from him and crossed her arms over her chest. “But, not yet. There are a few things I need to take care of first.” She ascended toward the shop, glancing at her brother. “Protect the egg while I’m gone. I may not be able to return before this all goes down.”

  Ori ducked behind the counter when he saw Delilah reenter the shop. She stood on her tiptoes and then rapped on the counter, peering down at him. “Sorry about earlier. I look out for my brother, you know? And he looks out for me.”

  “Oh. I understand.” Ori popped up, knocking the quill out of a vial of ink but stopping the jar from tipping over only by sticking a claw into it. He frowned and wiped the ink on a nearby cloth.

  She decided to throw the drak a bone. “Good work watching the place while we were gone. We appreciate it. I don’t know if Kale told you that yet.”

  “Oh. No, he didn’t say anything.” Ori scrunched up his face, and then smiled, as if it took a few moments to register that he had been praised. He held up a claw. “Oh! Don’t leave yet, please.”

  Ori turned around and rummaged through one of his small chests of supplies. He returned with several narrow, gold pieces of fabric. “Oh! I noticed the ribbons on your horns look dirty and frayed. I would be most honored if you would accept these to wear.”

  Delilah, thankful she was unable to blush, touched the ribbons tied to her horns. They were little more than colored strips of cloth she’d torn off a discarded cloak. She couldn’t even recall their original color. The ribbons Ori offered were made from finely woven, shimmering fabric. She took them from him and rubbed them between her fingers. They were slick, yet soft.

  “Oh. They’re silk bookmarks. Printers sometimes bind them into expensive books, but they look like they’re about the right size.”

  The drak sorceress grinned and tore the tattered ribbons off her horns. She knelt before Ori and offered the silk strips to him. “Do you mind? I can’t see the top of my head, and I’d like them to be straight.”

  “Oh! Yes… yes, of course.”

  She felt him fumble before deciding on the right kind of knot. While he worked, she studied his feet and noted his meticulously trimmed claws. That’s a stupid thing to notice, Deli-girl.

  He stepped away when he’d finished tying the ribbons. She stood and offered the nervous blue drak a smile. “They’re perfect. Thank you.”

  Ori was still sputtering and shuffling his feet when she left.

  ***

  When Kali finally awoke, Kale informed her of his sister’s plan. If she harbored the same doubt as he, she hid it well. “She knows what she’s capable of, Kale. One human wizard should be easy compared to the fiendling and crystal golems we fought in Almeria.”

  His mate had a point, but he suspected Archmage Vilkan to be a more powerful wizard than the fiendling who ran the salt mines. He set aside his concerns and left with Kali to wander the undercity and shop. They needed to restock their larder, and Kali desired a few knickknacks to add a more personal touch to their home. Kale indulged her. He didn't know how long they would remain in Muncifer, but he figured it wise to make the best of the time they were there.

  Together, they continued to clean and repair their home. Though the space was livable, signs of its abandonment were too obvious to anyone who entered it. Furniture needed mending, floors needed sanding and polishing, and more than once, Kale yearned for the smooth stone floors of Drak-Anor.

  As he sanded the floor of the hallway on his hands and knees, he voiced his complaints to Ori. “Why even cover the rock with wood? What’s the point?” Tempted to tear up the floor and take it down to bare rock, Kale considered the building’s underlying construction. Their cellar wasn’t directly below their dwelling, so he didn’t understand the reason the previous owners utilized wood for flooring.

  “Oh, whoever built the place probably wanted a level floor. That’s why they build them like this in Maritropa. Plus, having it all connected makes the house more stable. I think.”

  “A level floor? That’s weird.” Kale, accustomed to the natural slopes, curves, and dips of the floors in Drak-Anor, could not conceive of a reason to need or desire a level floor.

  “Oh, well, not that weird if you keep a lot of things you don’t want rolling away.”

  “Do they have a lot of round decorations in Maritro
pa? All the draks I know prefer things that remind them of crystals.”

  Ori chuckled. “Oh, well, you know, there are a lot more elves and humans in Maritropa than draks. We live in the same kinds of homes they do there.”

  “How strange.” Kale cursed the pain in his knees and the builder who seemed to have a vendetta against the natural curvature of stone. Probably elves. They’re always doing things with wood. Do they make elves as small as draks? He kept his mind occupied with thoughts of tree-dwelling, short elves until he finished sanding the floor.

  He heard a customer conversing with Ori and eavesdropped only long enough to determine it was a standard business transaction. Sighing, he felt a familiar twinge in his gut. His mind wandered, nostalgic for the days of fending off dwarf invasions, Kali’s companionship being the only factor that muted those feelings of restlessness.

  Those days were long gone. Drak-Anor, while not quite allies with the dwarves of Ironkrag, no longer raided their Deep Road caravans. Having grown up during a time of perpetual conflict, Kale found peaceful times boring and often grew restless. He threw down his sanding block and stretched as he walked toward his bedchamber.

  His mate had gone wandering the market. From the bedside table, the puzzle box Terrakaptis gifted him beckoned. It had been weeks since he worked with it, and he still couldn’t figure out three of its sides. He pulled it onto his lap and lost himself in its clockwork intricacies.

  ***

  After a week of intense abuse by Gisella, Pancras could walk the ship unaided and not spew his guts across the decks. Though not actual mistreatment, the pain he incurred during the first few days she forced him out of bed made abuse seem like an apt description.

  Food aboard the Maiden of the High Seas was only food in the academic sense. It was technically nourishing and would keep one from starving to death, but the bonelord was not convinced living on it was better than the alternative. Once, he found weevils in his hardtack, which put him off eating the rest of the day. To his dismay, he found the bugs typical of grain-based foods on the ship and eventually forced himself to make do.

  His daily exercises with Gisella worked muscles he had not used in years, and he often collapsed into his hammock exhausted. Even his withered arm, despite appearing as though all the muscles atrophied beyond use, felt sore and fatigued. The pain and discomfort were necessary, however, if he were to put his maul, Shatterskull, to use. Bonelords fought undead when necessary, and Pancras owed it to the goddess Aita to commit himself fully.

  Qaliah called to him from the rigging, and he waved to her before he ducked through the door into the fo’c’sle. When he wasn’t training with Gisella, or concentrating to keep his meals down, Pancras assisted the ship’s surgeon/carpenter, Stumpy.

  Little more than a closet equipped with a desk and a table upon which to operate on wounded sailors, Stumpy’s infirmary left a lot to be desired. From the peg-covered walls hung various dual-purpose cutting tools. They sawed through bone and wood.

  Stumpy’s absence from the infirmary didn’t bother Pancras; he had a list of tasks to complete, and he didn’t want the man looking over his shoulder. He cobbled together a small alchemy lab on top of Stumpy’s desk, and Pancras pulled over a stool from which to work.

  Brewing potions on a rolling ship presented difficulties in measuring liquid ingredients and keeping volatile mixtures stable. An explosion in such tight quarters would be catastrophic. For the time being, Pancras limited himself to creating less unpredictable substances like poultices and ointments. The captain requested illumination gems for the lanterns, as well, and although the minotaur could create such minor artifacts, he had yet to convince the captain that irregular lumps of glass were not suitable replacements for properly cut gemstones.

  He heard an insistent thump at the door. Pancras yanked it open to greet a grimacing Qaliah.

  “Got something for this?” She held up a raw, bloody hand. Against her jet-black skin, he found it difficult to distinguish blood from water, but he followed its distinctive metallic odor. He noted a whiff of sulfur accented hers, as well.

  “What happened?” Pancras withdrew a jar of ointment from his pouch. He dabbed away the blood with a cloth before smearing it on.

  Qaliah flinched and gritted her teeth. “That stings.”

  “Hush.” He wrapped her wounded hand in clean linen.

  “I slipped. Grabbed a rope in time but still slid a bit before stopping.” The fiendling flexed her bandaged hand, noting its mobility would be restricted until it healed. “No big deal. Hey, did you ever find out why they call the surgeon Stumpy? He’s got both legs and arms, and he’s taller than me.”

  The question had plagued Pancras for a few days after he had been introduced to Stumpy. Fortunately, the surgeon possessed a sense of humor about it. “He told me that on his first day, he had to do three leg amputations.”

  “Better he be cutting them off than having his own cut off to earn the name, right?” Qaliah hopped onto the table and stretched her legs. She lay down and rolled over, reaching out to Pancras. “Lock the door. Let’s have some fun.”

  He regarded her. The fiendling began to untie her top. He seized her hand to stop her. “That’s um… that’s…”

  Pancras struggled to find a diplomatic way to approach the issue. He felt his skin burn hot under his fur. He made no secret of his desires, but he didn’t advertise either.

  “Hey, I don’t normally go for big folk like you, yeah?” She wiggled underneath Pancras’s hand so it rested on top of her breasts. He snatched it away. “I mean, I think you might have girth issues, but Gisella says it’s bad for morale if I ‘entertain’ the sailors. It’s been too long, and I know you’ve not shared anyone’s bed since we left.”

  “She’s right.”

  Qaliah took hold of Pancras’s belt. “So, take these off! I can’t be gone all afternoon.”

  The minotaur backed away, bumping into a wall full of saws, acutely aware that one wrong move could become painful and bloody. “You’re very nice…”

  With groan, Qaliah reclined and slapped her forehead. “Cybele’s tits! You’re one of those ‘only minotaurs’ types, aren’t you? A little hot-blooded fiendling’s not good enough?”

  Reaching behind to steady the myriad sharp, pointy tools at his back, Pancras pulled away from them, feeling his robes snag. “Males. I prefer males. It’s not that you’re not attractive, probably. You’re just not attractive to me.”

  The fiendling retied her shirt and rolled off the table. “I should’ve bedded the dwarf, but no, we abandoned him in Curton.” She slammed the door behind her as she left, still complaining about their former companion’s absence.

  Pancras sat on the stool, resting his face in his hands. Aita’s bloody bones. He sat silent for a few minutes before following after her. He searched the main deck but saw no sign of her. Crew members he questioned reported not having seen the fiendling since she left to have her hand bandaged.

  The minotaur found her in their cabin. She rummaged through her pack.

  “Qaliah, I—”

  “Save it.” She stood up, holding a leather glove. She pulled it over her bandaged hand and clenched her fist. “You made yourself clear. There’s nothing more to discuss.”

  “You seemed upset. I didn’t want—”

  The fiendling slapped him on the arm. “You turned me down. It happens. I’m over it.” She tilted her head. “Unless you’re having second thoughts?”

  Pancras stared into her ice-blue eyes and shook his head. “No. I just don’t want any bad blood. Don’t tell the crew?”

  “There isn’t, and I won’t.” Qaliah chuckled. “You’re nicer than most people are toward me. It’s fine. I’m good. You?”

  The minotaur nodded and rubbed his horn as she left. His relief at clearing the air lasted the rest of the day, even when Stumpy brought in a screaming sailor with a gaff hook embedded in his chest.

  Together, they worked beyond the toll of the next watch b
ell to remove the hook without further injuring the sailor. The whole time, Stumpy muttered and cursed about “clumsy swabbie” while Pancras handed him the supplies he needed. By the time they finished, the man rested comfortably. Once they washed away all the blood, it was suppertime. Pancras sat to eat with his friends, satisfied with his good work.

  ***

  “How are things, Delilah?” Katka greeted her friend as Delilah, seated beneath the university’s blood oak, read one of the books the librarian let her borrow. It was a history of the Arcane University, covering a specific period when the guild burned through several archmages as teams of rivals challenged each other to duel after duel under Gerald the Craven’s then-new guidelines.

  “I hardly see you anymore.” The human girl sat next to her friend.

  “Been in the library. The archmage left me to charge a bunch of lightning bombs they’re going to use for practice and ran off to Dolios-knows where. He’s been gone two weeks now, and his tasks for me only took two days.” The drak sorceress spent her free time reading history and the guild rules. When she wasn’t doing that, she studied Gil-Li’s grimoire, trying to make the new techniques second nature. Delilah closed the book and tilted her head at Katka. “And I dragged my feet, too, so to speak.”

  Katka tapped the book Delilah held. “Anything good in there?”

  A slow smile spread across Delilah’s face, baring her teeth. “Loads. I’m ready. I just need to find the right time and place.”

  “Can’t you…” The human waited until a group of gossiping students passed. “You can’t just challenge him anywhere?”

  “Well, yes.” Delilah put the book on the bench beside her and stretched. “But it’ll look better if I can do it right after he acts belligerent or disrespects me.”

  She picked up the book and gestured for Katka to follow her. After returning the tome to the library, they headed to the dormitory. Delilah poured two goblets of wine and handed one to Katka.