Betrayal In The Highlands (Book 2)

by Robert Evert

  The constable whooped. “Got more than you expected, eh? Good luck feeding the troll.”

  What’re you going to do now?

  Edmund touched Fatty Moron’s sizable elbow. “It’s okay. W-w-we’re … we’re going to take care of you.”

  Fatty Moron didn’t move.

  Edmund drew a handkerchief from his pocket, reached up, and wiped the blood and manure from Fatty Moron’s face.

  “There. We’ll get you cleaned up better later.”

  The behemoth stared vacantly in front of him.

  “Pond,” Edmund said, “get our new friend here some decent clothes and some shoes tomorrow. Sturdy stuff, suitable for a hard day’s work.”

  “Okay,” Pond replied. “But we’ll have to sell some of the gems. We’re all out of coins.”

  “Fine. Do what you have to. We’ll review our finances later.” Edmund beckoned to Fatty Moron. “Come with us, okay? We’ll get you a good meal and a bed. You’re with us now. Do you understand?”

  Fatty Moron continued to stare at the ground.

  “He doesn’t understand, mister,” said a little boy. “He’s a moron!”

  The blood-and-manure-coated handkerchief slipped from Edmund’s fingers, landing on Fatty Moron’s grubby bare feet. Fatty Moron blinked at it for a moment then bent down and picked it up. He handed it to Edmund.

  “Thank you,” Edmund said. “If you come with us, we can get you cleaned up a bit more. M-m-maybe even get you some food. Are you hungry?”

  Fatty Moron nodded, face vacant.

  “Okay. Then let’s go home, shall we? I’m sure we can use your help with a few things.”

  He gestured up the road to the bluffs overlooking the city, where Baroness Melody’s expansive manor stood surveying the Western Sea.

  “Actually, I think I have a job for you,” Edmund said, peering up at Fatty Moron as they walked away from the jeering townsfolk. “Do you like dogs?”

  Chapter Nine

  “Do you have a name?” Edmund asked Fatty Moron.

  Fatty Moron lumbered up the stairs to the top floor of Baroness Melody’s guesthouse, gulping for breath. Sweat skimmed down his portly face and neck. Rolls of fat draping from his midsection bounced with each trudging step.

  If he leans on that banister, it’ll snap like a dry twig!

  Just be glad the entire staircase hasn’t collapsed.

  “Well, we’ll figure that out later.” Edmund slid his key into the door’s lock. “You’re with us now, and we’re n-n-not … we’re not going to harm you. No more whippings or anything else like that, do you understand?”

  Fatty Moron might have nodded; it was difficult to tell as he sucked in air.

  You’ve bitten off more than you can chew. What’s stopping him from killing you while you sleep?

  He’s not like Turd. We’ll be fine.

  You don’t need this aggravation.

  He needs help.

  “Okay, this is what we need you to do,” Edmund said. “We have this dog who’s a bit of a handful.”

  Pond leaned closer to Fatty Moron. “She’s a demon!”

  Fatty Moron’s tiny black eyes widened.

  “No, she’s not.” Edmund shot Pond an admonishing look as he opened the door to their suite. “She just needs a lot of attention that we can’t really give her right now. We need you to walk—”

  Fatty Moron’s eyes grew wider still.

  Pond groaned.

  Edmund turned and gaped at the parlor.

  The parquet floor was covered in white down feathers. It looked like it was snowing inside. Becky streaked across the room, bounding through the drifts and chomping at the feathers as they flew into the air. Upon seeing the front door open, she smiled at her owners.

  “Oh, great!” Pond said. “I’ll bet you anything it’s my bed.”

  Following Edmund and Pond, Fatty Moron ducked through the doorway.

  “Becky …” Edmund sighed. “What did you do?”

  Becky sat in front of him and barked, tail kicking up a fluffy white cloud behind her.

  Looking into his bedroom, Pond cursed.

  “Of course,” he said. “Now where the hell am I going to sleep?”

  Tiny feathers clung to the crystal chandelier. Feathers lay in the fireplace. Feathers were even behind the closed glass doors of the corner bookcase, though how they’d gotten there, Edmund didn’t have a clue.

  Fatty Moron stood in the entryway like a man awaiting his execution.

  A feather drifted through the air; snarling Becky gave chase. She snapped and snapped as it swirled about her head.

  “Becky,” Edmund said. “What am I going to do with you?”

  Fatty Moron bent over and began to clean, his chubby fingers picking up one feather at a time.

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Edmund told him.

  Expression blank, Fatty Moron slowly stood up and let the three feathers he had collected float back to the floor. Becky charged at them from across the room.

  “So what are you going to do about this?” Pond asked. “She’s a menace! It’s time to get rid of her.”

  Edmund rubbed his forehead. His hangover was returning, full force.

  “We’ll get a new mattress tomorrow. And get one for … for …” He inclined his head toward Fatty Moron. “In fact, get him two. We’ll lay them side by side on the floor in my room.”

  “Like I said, we don’t have any coins left,” Pond reminded him. “We’ll need to sell some gems or jewelry.”

  “I know. Maybe we can go to Long Ravine and sell a few things. The nobility there might have the resources to pay what they’re worth. We’ll need to sell enough to last us for a while. I don’t want to travel all over; we need to keep a low profile.”

  Pond looked at the mammoth man standing by the front door. “You really think we’re going to be able to keep a low profile wherever we end up?”

  Edmund sighed again.

  “Hey … big fella,” he said to Fatty Moron. “Could you do me a favor? Somewhere in this chaos is a wadded-up cloak. Take Becky outside and throw it around until her legs fall off. Okay?”

  As soon as Edmund said “outside,” Becky began to bark. Tearing through the field of feathers, she disappeared into Edmund’s bedroom and then returned with a feather-covered ball of olive-green fabric in her mouth. She hopped up onto her hind legs and pawed at Edmund’s stomach.

  “Or you can just rip her legs off yourself, if you like,” Pond said to Fatty Moron, picking up a remnant of one of his blankets.

  “Becky, go with …” Edmund pointed at Fatty Moron. “Go with him. He’ll play with you.” Then he added to Fatty Moron, “You do know that Pond was kidding, don’t you? About her legs?”

  Fatty Moron’s head bobbed as he opened the front door. With the shredded cloak in her mouth, Becky sprang into the hallway, a trail of white feathers floating behind.

  “I suppose it could be worse,” Edmund said, surveying the room after they’d gone.

  “How?” Pond asked, appalled.

  “She could have destroyed the sofa or hassock. They’d be f-f-far more costly to replace.”

  “Give the little monster time.” Pond brushed a pile of feathers into the remains of his pillowcase. “We’d better get this mess cleaned up before the chambermaid comes in the morning. Baroness Melody might like you now, but she’ll have a fit if she sees this.”

  “That reminds me,” Edmund said. “I need your help putting together a letter that Becky got to. It may be important.”

  “Letter?” Pond said, the contents of his pillowcase growing. “From whom?”

  “At first I thought it might have been from Molly.”

  Pond opened his mouth.

  “I know … I know,” Edmund said. “She’s married.”

  “So who’s it from? And how could anybody know we’re here? Word can’t travel that fast.”

  “I don’t know,” Edmund said. “That’s what we need to figure out.”

&n
bsp; When Fatty Moron finally returned, it was nearly midnight. Edmund and Pond were hunched over a table, their frustrated faces bathed in the red glow of a flickering lamp set between them. They attempted to fit together a couple more pieces of the shredded letter without success.

  Becky staggered into the room and collapsed onto a pile of feathers by the fireplace. Her tongue and the slobber-covered cloak rolled out of her mouth.

  “Thanks, big guy,” Edmund said. “She’ll sleep well tonight.”

  Pond tried fitting together two fragments of the letter but found they didn’t match. He stretched, his spine cracking.

  Edmund read what had already been pieced together.

  “Master Edmund. I congratulate you on your sur … urgent matters … at our last meeting … fear you are in peril. We … will meet … come back to Eryn Mas … hear from you with all due haste.”

  They still had more than sixty remaining pieces.

  Damned dog!

  “ ‘Fear you are in peril,’ ” Edmund read out loud.

  “Do you think we should go someplace else?” Pond asked. “Perhaps Eryn Mas would be safer.”

  Safer from what?

  Kravel and Gurding, of course.

  They can’t get us here. We’re hundreds of miles from the mountains.

  So was Rood.

  “Anyway,” Pond continued, “we could certainly make more money selling the gems and jewelry there rather than here. We could probably triple the value of what we have.”

  Fatty Moron loomed above them. A long, meaty arm reached out over the table, flab like a turkey’s wattle jiggling in front of Edmund’s face. He moved some paper around.

  “Don’t—” Edmund began, but Fatty Moron had pieced two scraps together.

  “… will meet you … at the …” Pond and Edmund read in unison.

  “You know how to read?” Edmund asked Fatty Moron, amazed.

  Frowning, the big man shook his head.

  “That’s a shame. If you could read …”

  Don’t be stupid. He’s a moron. You can’t teach him how to read any more than you can teach Becky how to behave.

  Fatty Moron reached for the table again and pushed three pieces together.

  Pond read the results. “… our friend …”

  “Our friend?” Edmund repeated.

  “It could be ‘your friend.’ The ‘o’ is right by the tear.”

  My friend? My friend’s what? I don’t have any friends … except Pond.

  “Does this mean anything?” Pond asked, pointing to two scraps that fit roughly together. They spelled out “Thorgo.”

  Thorgorim?

  Edmund’s throat felt like it was collapsing.

  Relax. It’s just a word, not the place. No need to panic.

  Fatty Moron pieced together a series of fragments that spelled out: “… stop your friend from talking …”

  Edmund stared at the new phrase.

  “Stop your friend from talking …”

  “So does Thorgo mean anything?” Pond persisted, tapping the pieces he’d put together.

  Edmund nodded, trying not to look at it. “It’s probably ‘Thorgorim.’ ”

  “What’s Thorgorim?”

  “It’s the name of the Undead King’s tower.”

  “Oh,” said Pond. “Well, that doesn’t sound good. Who else knows we were there?”

  Fatty Moron put another piece next to his previous string.

  “… stop your friend from talking or kill him …”

  Edmund and Pond exchanged startled glances.

  ‘Your friend?’ Pond’s my only friend.

  Pond backed away from the table, hands raised in mock surrender.

  “Have you said anything about …” Edmund’s eyes shifted to Fatty Moron, who was rearranging the scraps. “You know—the metal?”

  “What? No. Of course not. You told me not to. We haven’t even talked about it since we came here.”

  Edmund thought for a moment.

  Perhaps this is about magic.

  “What about my … my abilities?” he asked.

  Pond shook his head. “Are you kidding? They’d probably burn me alive with you.”

  “True.”

  ‘Your friend?’ If not Pond … who could that be?

  Edmund’s gaze rested on the end of the letter, where the word “haste” had been written with an elegant flourish.

  “Haste,” he muttered.

  A sinking feeling filled his stomach. He sat in the chair with the heaviness of a dying man, trying to recall who would have known he’d gone to Thorgorim and how somebody could have sent him a letter here when he’d only just arrived.

  “What?” Pond asked.

  Edmund waved a hand. “Give me a second to think.”

  Thorgorim …

  Nobody could possibly guess we went there. Nobody.

  He stared at the large black tome he’d taken from the troll’s lair, high up on a bookshelf and far from Becky’s sharp teeth. He had been meaning to take it down and examine it more closely, but he simply hadn’t had the mental energy.

  Maybe all of this is because Pond used my real name when we arrived. I should’ve had him call me something else.

  What harm could that have done? It isn’t a rare name. There’re probably ten Edmunds or Eds within a day’s ride of Dardenello.

  True …

  He sighed.

  There has to be a clue here somewhere.

  He scanned the smattering of phrases and sentences scattered across the table in front of them.

  “ ‘… come back to Eryn Mas,’ ” he said to himself.

  The sinking feeling grew heavier. Something told him that Eryn Mas wasn’t the place to be, though he wasn’t sure why.

  “Thorgorim,” Edmund said under his breath.

  The pit in his stomach tightened.

  Damn it. I’ll never be free from all of this. Curse that diary. Curse that metal. Curse—

  Molly?

  ‘Your friend.’ ‘Kill your friend’?

  Edmund searched the pieces to make sure he had the exact wording.

  “… stop your friend from talking or kill him …”

  Him. Kill him. Not her.

  Him?

  Norb?

  Kill Norb. Why?

  He’s been talking about what? Our escape from Thorgorim?

  So? Nobody would believe him.

  Kill Norb.

  Edmund imagined his sword slicing into Norb’s gut, blood trickling from the stablehand’s gurgling mouth. The thought didn’t revolt him. The fact that it didn’t, however, did.

  “All right,” Pond said abruptly. “Enough thinking. More talking. What’s this all about? Should we leave here? Are we in danger?”

  Edmund rapped his knuckles on the table. “I don’t know. But I don’t like the fact that somebody knows I’m here.”

  “We just got here yesterday. How would they even know where we were going to be? They would’ve had to send the letter before we arrived.”

  “Exactly.”

  Edmund stared at the window, unable to see out into the night as the red flame from their lamp reflected off the thick beveled glass. Yet anybody outside could certainly see him.

  Pond fidgeted. “I like this place. I was hoping we’d live here for a good while …”

  “Me too.”

  “… but if somebody knows enough to send us a letter here,” Pond went on, “Kravel might know as well.”

  How could they know?

  How could anybody know?

  “What’re you thinking?” Pond asked. “That this is some sort of goblin trap?”

  Still staring at their reflections, Edmund shook his head. “No. No, I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  How could somebody mail a letter before we even arrived? How would they know where to send it?

  “Why not?” Pond asked again.

  “Because whoever sent this must have had some sort of magical abilities,” Edmu
nd said, then immediately regretted it.

  He looked up.

  Fatty Moron’s face had turned ashen.

  “Oh,” Edmund said. “I … I was just kidding. Honest! I just meant they must have been very smart!”

  Fatty Moron didn’t seem comforted. He carefully set the scraps down on the table with the others, walked to a corner of the room, sat on the floor, and pulled his ample knees up under his many chins.

  “Okay,” Pond said. “So the person who sent it was a … a very smart person. That’s how they knew we were here. That’s good, right? Another one of you to learn from? Safety in numbers and all that?”

  Edmund shook his head.

  “I don’t know. There’s just something about this.” Exhaling, he ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “I can’t explain it. Something’s wrong. I can feel it in my bones.”

  The crescent moon climbed higher into the night sky. The ocean waves crashed against the bluffs. Edmund, staring at the mauled letter, suddenly felt extremely old and tired.

  “So what do you want to do?” Pond asked. “We could go back to Eryn Mas. I’m sure I’d like it there just as well as here. Like I said, we’d be able to sell our gems for a higher price, but, of course, it’ll probably cost more to live …”

  “No,” Edmund said. “Something tells me Eryn Mas isn’t safe. I don’t know why. It’s … it’s just a hunch. All of this is just a hunch. I don’t have a clue what’s going on.”

  He watched Becky snoring by the fireplace.

  “But I think we should leave Dardenello,” he said at last, dejected. “I want to go where nobody can find us. I want …” He stared at the scraps in front of them.

  “What?” Pond asked.

  “I want to find someplace where people will just leave me in peace.”

  Chapter Ten

  “What’s wrong?” Pond asked Edmund the next evening while he shoved their recently purchased clothes and supplies into his new backpack.

  As the sun set in a striking ball of orange and purple over the green sea, sinister storm clouds rolled toward Dardenello from the southwest.

  “Nothing,” Edmund said, pulling himself out of his thoughts. “I was just thinking about something … something about my father.”

  “Tell me about it.” Pond folded a new pair of pants into a neat square. “I always enjoy hearing stories about your family.”