“Oh, come on,” Rerry said to Ben, rubbing his shoulder. “Might as well let sour face know his father has arrived.”
“Let’s go in,” Sasha said. “Our spot will make you feel right at home.”
Holding her hand, Bayzog ducked inside the cave after Ben and Rerry. Mystic flames reflected on the walls, which were coated in bright oily colors. There were beds made from giant leaves and tall grasses and nothing more. The cave went back as far as he could see, and the ambiance was soothing. He glanced back outside the cave mouth, beheld the spectacular view he and Sasha fell for so many decades ago, and sighed.
“You need rest,” she said, rubbing his hand between hers.
He brushed her hair over her ears. Her face was scuffed up and swollen. It angered him. His wife and sons had been through quite an ordeal. He could feel it.
“Never again,” he said. “To the end.”
“Mother! Father!” Rerry’s voice echoed in the cave.
They rushed deeper within. Samaz lay propped up in Rerry’s arms, with the whites of his eyes showing. Bayzog knelt alongside his son and squeezed his knee.
“What’s wrong?” Ben asked.
“He does this when he dreams,” Rerry said, “and his dreams seem to be getting longer and worse.”
Samaz stiffened and popped upright.
His eyes rolled so that only the whites were exposed, and he started mumbling, “Gorn Grattack comes … Gorn Grattack comes … Gorn Grattack comes…”
CHAPTER 17
Brenwar shoved a boulder four times his size.
“Hurk!”
The boulder shifted in the dirt.
“Brenwar! You’re pushing it! You’re pushing it!” Pilpin said. He scurried over to the mountain rim and peered over. Barnabus soldiers waited below, breaking camp. Pilpin rushed back. “Hurry! They’re moving on.”
Brenwar’s dark eyes were popped wide open, and sweat beaded his face. He straightened with everything he had. The mystic bracers aided a great deal, but they still needed fuel from his iron will. He clenched his teeth. “Grrrrrrrrrrrrr …”
The dust and dirt below the great stone shifted more, and the rock began to grind over the dirt.
“You’re doing it!” Pilpin exclaimed.
“Keep it down!” Brenwar grunted.
“Oh,” Pilpin said, hopping up and down and covering his bearded lips. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Push!”
“Certainly, Brenwar, certainly!” Pilpin lowered his shoulder, dug his boots in, and gave the rock a shove.
The boulder started to eclipse the edge.
“We’ve almost got it, Brenwar!”
Red-faced, Brenwar eyed the little dwarf that was half the size of him. Shaking his head, he took a deep breath and put more back into it.
“Hurk!”
“Come on, Brenwar!” Pilpin blurted out. “Push it!”
The rock moved another half foot. It was inches from the rim. He dug in and shoved it another half step. The rock teetered back toward Brenwar and Pilpin.
“Oh no!” Pilpin said, stepping away.
“No you don’t!” Brenwar added.
The rock slipped inches farther, teetered more over, and …
Whoosh!
It slid off the rim.
Bam! Bang! Crack!
It bounced down the hillside, crushing rocks and breaking off jagged limbs. The soldiers of Barnabus—men, orcs, lizardmen, and gnolls—cried out at the rolling hunk of terror. Weighed down by armor and lacking quick-thinking brains, they caught the doom full force.
Over a dozen Barnabus minions were pulverized as the great stone rolled on toward the river.
Huffing for breath, Brenwar picked up a stone larger than his head and hurled it down on a lone survivor. Pilpin chucked a few rocks of his own.
“We did it,” the little dwarf said. Slapping Brenwar’s shoulder, he stuck his chest out. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Aye,” Brenwar added. “Now let’s go. There’s certain to be survivors. Let’s see what we can squeeze out of them.” He rubbed his wrists. “Such marvelous toys.”
As the pair traversed the slope, Brenwar still had much on his mind. Black Dragons. Nath. Sightings of Gorn Grattack. Skirmishes far away from the cities in a secret war that was going on. There was only one thing he liked so far in his quest: there was plenty of fighting to be done. He just hoped his friends fared as well as he did.
CHAPTER 18
“This is strange,” Shum said to Hoven. His stone-faced countenance was sad. He held a pixlyn no bigger than a doll in his hands. The pixlyn, a small winged figurine of a man, breathed no more. Its once vibrant body was now stiff and lifeless. “And tragic,” he added.
Nodding, Hoven slid a hunting knife from his belt and began carving in a tree. The pair had trekked into the foothills south of the Shale Hills, stopping only to rest the horses. The Roamers, horse and elf, required little sleep, but Hoven yawned.
“Brother, are you well?” Shum said, tucking the pixlyn under his arm.
Hoven dug his blade deeper into the knot in the tree.
“This land is cursed. See how this tree bleeds?” Black sap seeped from the knot and down the bark of the tree. There were brown moldy spots all over it. Hoven put a dab of sticky sap on his finger. His face turned sour, and he spat. “The soil is tainted.”
“And the waters.” Shum removed a small shovel from his horse and tossed it to Hoven. “We need to bury him.”
“Here? In this unhealthy ground?”
The fertility of the forest had ebbed. The colorful leaves dried up and fell out of season. The bark of the trees was peeling, and fallen branches were scattered on the ground. Chipmunks, moles, and such lay dead in their tracks. Predators such as foxes didn’t eat them. Not even vultures did. Shum’s skin crawled. Unseen forces lurked all about.
“We’ll find another spot where the ground is more fertile.”
The Roamers winded through the woodland, passing through bountiful spots and others dreary and grey. The wildwood divided. Some groves thrived, while others moaned for light, dark undergrowth and weeds overwhelming them. Shum didn’t remember such places from the last dragon war, but he did remember the devastation. Forest and city burning with fire. Desolated. What he saw now was different.
“Here,” Hoven said, dipping his shovel into the soft earth. It was a nice clearing, under the sun and a couple dozen yards from the glass surface of a pond. “This spot is better than most I’ve seen. It should give it a chance.”
Hoven put his back into it, long sinewy arms scooping out heaps of dirt, braided hair dangling down over his ample shoulders.
Shum brushed his thumb over the pixlyn’s face. The little person was a creature of earthen magic. Sometimes, the soil could revive them. He’d witnessed it before, but that was with other pixlyns handling the burial. There were no other pixlyns now. Just a still, quiet forest, where nothing breathed but them.
A horse nickered and headed for the pond.
Shum craned his neck and swallowed. The cool waters of the pond looked refreshing. Hoven stopped his digging, and, eyeing him, he lowered the small body into the small but deep grave. Kneeling, he followed with a few Elvish words.
The wind stirred.
Shum nodded, and Hoven began refilling the grave. Nearby, a horse whinnied.
“I’ll fill the canteens,” Shum said, making his way toward the pond. The horses’ necks were bent toward the water, but they did not drink. Their hooves became restless on the soft ground. Shum’s hands fell to his swords. He let out a sharp whistle.
A dragon’s head surfaced and struck. Its great jaws clamped down on Shum’s horse’s neck. A second dragon head burst from the water and latched onto the other horse. The Roamer steeds whined and bucked.
“No!” Shum cried, rushing for the water’s edge. He struck into the dragon’s neck. An oily beast coated in slime and muck. The blade bit, but not deeply, and the dragon jaws crunched
farther downward. “Hoven!” He struck again and again.
The dragon’s neck rose, lifting the horse higher, and the full body of the dragon began to emerge from the waters. It towered over elf and horse. Two serpentine necks were attached to a large four-legged body coated in mud and scales. Its wings and tail were coal black.
Shum slid his spear out of his pack and twirled it three times over. It lengthened from two feet to eight. He waded into the waters and plunged the spear into the beast’s belly. It sank in. The dragon heads roared. Both horses fell to the ground in a heap.
The dragon struck at him.
Spear in one hand, sword in the other, Shum parried the assault with fury. Hoven emerged and chopped vigorously at the other dragon head. Both elven blades chipped away through the scales and into the bones. The wingless, hornless dragon beast slunk deeper into the waters. Its striking heads collided with razor sharp steel.
“Don’t let him get away!” Shum yelled.
He rammed the spear up through the bottom of its jaw, piercing the gray matter in its head. The second head let out an ear-splitting howl. Hoven cut it deeply through the throat and neck. The dragon slunk back into the pond, and the waters began to bubble over its dying bulk.
Shum and Hoven rushed out of the waters to the sides of their gravely wounded mounts.
“No! No! No!” Shum cried. He laid his bare hands on his beast and recited mystic prayers in Elvish, but it was too late.
CHAPTER 19
“Man, are you slight in the head?” the older guard of The Deep said. “Get back away from there, Jason!” It was the same man who had warned Gorlee about his musings days ago. Older. Gruff in nature.
Gorlee continued to stare at the glassy black surface that covered The Deep. The oily image shimmered and warbled. He teetered closer to the edge. What he needed was down there. He could feel it. He also knew somehow that he had been down there before. If he could only get back down there, he knew he would find his memories. His booted toes stuck out over the edge.
“Get back here, you fool!” the senior guard said. “We already have one to feed him. We don’t need two.”
Gorlee turned.
A tall, rangy man with a thick black beard stood shackled between two guards. His clothes were ornate but disheveled, and he had a weary look about him.
“Tell you what, rook,” the lead guard said, spitting juice from his mouth. “I’ll let you lead this man to the edge. You can even watch the phantom snatch him up.”
“Ph-phantom?” the prisoner said, cringing. The guards shoved him forward. “No! No! I’m supposed to be put in a dungeon, not The Deep! My sentence is only—oof!”
The guard walloped him in the back of the head with a small club. The prisoner collapsed in a heap, and the two men dragged him over to the rim.
“Go ahead,” the senior guard said to Gorlee. “Roll him in there.”
Gorlee hooked the man beneath the arms.
The wind stirred, and a whoop of cries came up and out of The Deep.
The center of the black water stirred and started spinning in a swift circle. A dark oily form rose in the middle, dripping with sludge and goo. The guards scurried to the other side of the bars and slammed the gate shut. Gorlee heard one guard’s armored knees knocking.
“Get away from there!” the veteran guard said. “Get away!”
The phantom, a towery faceless ghoul, stretched its elongated arms out and made a shrieking howl. The ghostly hands engulfed the unconscious man’s entirety and pressed him deep down into the sludge.
Gorlee stood chin up, facing it.
The phantom tilted its head and shrieked again.
Gorlee hunkered down, covering his head and waiting. At last, Gorlee felt the phantom’s hands engulfing him, too. Ice raced through his veins, and down he went, spinning and spinning and spinning.
***
Coughing, Gorlee struggled to his knees. The prisoner lay beside him, wide eyed and shaking. Above, the well of The Deep showed a dim light hundreds of feet up. All signs of the phantom were gone. He reached over and touched the man. The prisoner jerked and sputtered.
“Eh,” Gorlee said, wiping slime from the man’s face. “I’ll check on you later.” He rose to his feet, swaying, and staggered forward until he regained his balance. A long corridor of cut stone and ancient symbols let out into several illuminated tunnels. He could hear shrill cackles, rustling chains, and the scuffle of bare and booted feet.
Hmmm…
He rubbed his chin, summoned his power, and shape-shifted. His mannish frame shrunk a foot. His arms corded up with muscle. Long yellow nails grew from the tips of his fingers. He tore off his uniform shirt, ripped up his pants into tatters, then said in a raspy voice, “I’m a goblin.”
Though he didn’t remember much about The Deep, he knew there were plenty of creatures from all the races down here. He’d heard the guards and their stories. He hobbled along the corridor and followed the stairs up into another level of caves that led to an overlook over a grand chamber hundreds of feet wide and deep.
He took a few quick breaths.
Even in this cavernous expanse, the stale air was rank with sweat. Suffocating. Covering his nose, he spied down below. Scores of prisoners milled about: men, orcs, half-orcs, gnolls, goblins, lizardmen, and even a few halflings. More lay still on the ground. Others, blemished and shaking with fevers, huddled in corners. Some sat with their legs dangling over the ledges up here, near the small tomb-like caves that encircled the arena.
Hunched over and dragging a foot, Gorlee made his way along the rim and climbed down one of the ladders that led to the bottom floor. Not a single eye drifted his way. He wrung his goblin hands.
Excellent.
Now he just had to find the part of him that was missing. The part that called to him from its burial down here. He milled about, staring at faces and listening to conversations.
The prisoners were all marred in some way or another. An orc was missing both eyes and one leg. A bugbear had no teeth. A halfling was covered head to toe in warts and chattering rapidly to himself. Many were hapless, but some were formidable. Another goblin with ruddy skin and both fingers missing from one hand bumped into him and muttered a curse. Its beady eyes bore into him.
Gorlee turned away. He’d spent months blending in. Imitating anyone and everything. Serving Selene’s dark purposes. The last thing he needed to do now was to draw unwanted attention to himself. Disguised or not, until he found whatever it was he was looking for, he needed to lay low. At least until he figured it out.
A firm hand grabbed and squeezed his shoulder. He turned and found himself face to face with the goblin.
“I don’t remember you,” it said in Goblin. “What is your name?”
Some of the other prisoners gathered around, hemming the pair of them in. Gorlee balled up his fists and slugged the fingerless goblin in the jaw. A raucous chorus of cries went up, and a circle of bodies closed in.
The goblin, dismayed, picked up a stone and lunged at Gorlee. It drove the stone into his gut and socked him in the head. Gorlee punched and kicked. It clawed and bit. Blood dripped over his eyes. He wrapped the goblin in a headlock.
“What you do!” the goblin cried. “What you do!”
There was fear in its voice.
The crowd chanted, arms pumping, at the two of them.
“To the death! To the death! To the death!”
Gorlee squeezed the goblin’s neck, making its eyes bulge. It tugged and pulled at his arm, but Gorlee held him fast. He had no love of goblins.
But he was no killer, either. Not yet at least. He released the goblin.
It felt to its knees, coughing and wheezing.
A bugbear shoved him forward. Other prisoners began shoving him as well.
“To the death!” they demanded. “That is how we live.”
It seemed there was a code in The Deep. That in order to keep the peace, such squabbles among the prisoners were made fatal.
Gorlee set his jaw and filled his hand with a stone.
The rank bodies resumed their clamor.
“Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!”
It was a dark and depraved moment.
The goblin dove onto his legs and drove him to the ground. Gorlee struck a blow to its back, drawing a howl. Back and forth they tussled, one rolling over the other. The goblin locked its claws on his neck. Gorlee swatted it in the ribs with the stone, bringing forth a grunt. The pair locked up arms and legs. It butted its mangy head under his chin. He held on.
Buy time. Buy time.
Gorlee glanced through the faces in the crowd. He could turn into any one of them and get away, if they closed in just a bit more.
Need another escape.
Suddenly, the crowd dispersed at the sound of a thunderous voice.
“WHAT HAVE WE HERE, A BATTLE?”
The triant, Bletver, lorded over them, leering downward with hairy knuckles dragging the ground. Part giant. Part troll. Gorlee knew something of what it was, based off the stories he’d overheard. But deep inside his mind, a spark flashed.
“He started it,” the goblin squealed. “Mercy, Lord Bletver. Mercy!”
“I DO NOT RECOGNIZE THIS GOBLIN.” Bletver snorted the air. “BUT ALL STINK TO ME.” He bent his great mass downward.
A bright yellow stone dangled from a chain on his neck, catching Gorlee’s eyes.
That’s it! I can feel it!
His grip on the goblin loosened, and it twisted from his grasp. It went down on knees and elbows.
Bletver’s arms lashed out, snatching them both from the ground in his oversized hands. Gorlee’s eyes bugged out, and his bones groaned.
“PERHAPS I KILL YOU BOTH!” The triant’s eyes fixed on Gorlee. “YOU ARE UNFAMILIAR. AND A STRANGE SCENT CONSUMES YOU.” His throat rumbled. “ODD, YET FAMILIAR.”
Gorlee stared at the yellow stone hanging on Bletver’s sagging neck. Inside, the stone throbbed and swirled. He stretched his fingers toward it.
“Eh … you like that?” Bletver said. “Well, that is mine!” It heaved Gorlee up and slammed him to the ground. Its hand began to grind him into the stone floor.
War In The Winds (Book 9) Page 8
