Beneath the green crystal was a cleared space, and leaning against the far wall were an assortment of tools: three buckets, two shovels, a pick, and a mattock. These weren’t made of stone like the ones Pa and Lee used. These were created from a shiny gray metal made dull with the stain of dirt. The dirt was mounded right beside them. There was another tool, a strange one like a woven screen. The dirt looked to have sifted through it.
Are there people down here? Who has been digging with those tools? Not even a grinning sheep could manage that with its cloven hooves.
Even more amazing than the tools was the presence of a round wooden door on the far side of the room, which was partially open. From behind it, more green light shone. She took another step closer and discovered a workbench with a stool in one of the darkened corners. The tabletop was covered with all sorts of tiny wooden spatulas, chisels, and hammers. Muddy, child-sized handprints with stubby fingers covered everything as if a youngster had been playing in red mud and had forgotten to wash.
Another step closer and Wren came upon a ladder next to something big and draped by a large cloth. Taller than she was, taller even than Pa, it stood between a muddy barrel and the workbench. The coarse cloth was a mess of fingerprints and larger stains, and it covered what was underneath so completely that Wren had no idea what it might be. She walked to where the draped thing stood and planned to lift the bottom of the cloth and take a quick peek. As she bent over and started reaching out, the door at the far side opened wide.
“You’re slow.” A little man entered the room. He was bald but had a mustache and beard so long that the tip trailed on the ground. “The others were much quicker. Nearly lost you a few times.”
Wren jumped back a step, pulling her hands to her chest as if she’d been caught stealing. Of all the terrors she’d imagined to find, a little man in a red cap was not on the list. With wrinkles around his eyes, he looked to be older than Pa, but he was only as tall as Wren. He wore a long loose shirt pulled tight around his waist by a thick belt. In addition to the red cap he wore tall boots and a blue vest with four silver buttons.
No, not a man, Wren realized. He’s a Dherg! She didn’t even know there were any of his kind around those parts. Her father had told a story about meeting one once, but that was when he was away in the south. When he had been gone for many months.
The Dherg walked past her to the workbench. He shuffled through the clutter and gleefully grabbed a small wooden bowl stained with dark tears running down the outside. He held it up triumphantly. “I’m not going to be stupid this time. Oh no, this time we’re going to do it right.” He pulled a long needle from a box and held both items out to her. “Just fill the bowl for now. No more than that, understand?”
Wren looked at the bowl and pin, then back at the Dherg. “Who are you?”
He scowled and shook his head, making his beard wag across the floor. “You don’t need to know that. Just prick your finger. Squeeze me out a cup. Hurry up, I’ve waited a long time for this.”
“You want my blood?”
He rolled his eyes. “Have something else in your finger, do you? Of course, I want your blood. But not too much. Like I said just a cup. Don’t do anymore or . . .” He glanced at the door. “Well, never you mind. Now go on. Get to it.”
“No!” Wren stumbled backward, knocking over one of the shovels, which clanged to the floor.
The Dherg scowled so that his facial hair bristled. He shook a finger at her. “Don’t you be chirping back at me, Little Cricket! I’ve waited far too long for this. You have no idea what I’ve gone through. Running out of patience is what I am. Oh, yes. It’s nearly all gone, trust me about that, Missy.” He held up a pair of his fingers next to his face, measuring out a pinch. “Not even this much left—not even that much. And I’m tired of listening to you crickets whining all the time. The knife looks dirty. I’ll die if I slit my wrist,” the Dherg spoke in a whining tone. “It hurts too much. I’m dizzy and lightheaded. Boo-hoo-hoo.” He glared at her. “I’m not interested in your problems. I have my own. Just give me the blood!”
Terrified, Wren turned to run. She took a step but couldn’t see the way out. The tunnel she’d traveled through was gone. The only thing behind her was a wall.
I’m trapped. Swallowed. I knew it! I knew this would happen!
She spun and expected the Dherg coming at her. Instead, he was climbing a stepladder.
“Where’s the tunnel?” she asked.
“Gone.” The Dherg reached up and began to pull the cloth away. “And it won’t be back until I get my bowl full.”
The cloth fell to the floor and Wren could finally see what was beneath. At first she thought it was a huge red man with massive shoulders and muscles so pronounced they cast their own shadows, but . . .
“Just need to make the head,” the Dherg said.
Wren realized the giant was a clay statue. Ma had made many pots from clay dug from the bank of the river where the blue wildflowers grew. Before using the mud Ma mixed it with water and left it to dry. Does this Dherg use blood instead?
The Dherg climbed back down and once more held out the cup and needle.
“Stay away from me!” Wren scuttled backward. “Let me out of here!”
The Dherg sighed, letting his shoulders slump. He shook his head and growled. “Why does it always have to go this way. Why can’t you just give me what I need? I won’t even take all of it this time. Don’t need to.” He hooked a thumb at the statue. “Just need enough for the head.”
Wren focused on his beard. “It was you. You were the one-too-many sheep. What did you do to Lee?”
“I didn’t do anything. I didn’t want him.” The Dherg shrugged. “Well I did, but he was too smart to follow me when he was young, and he’s too old now. Doesn’t take long to grow cynical, to lose that magical innocence, that powerful mix of wonder and naivety.”
“You killed him?”
“Didn’t need him.”
“And my parents?”
“Didn’t need them either.” He held out the bowl. “Maybe you want to consider making yourself useful.”
Wren began to cry.
“If you’re going to do that, at least do it into a cup. I don’t have any immediate need for tears, but you never know when they’ll come in handy.”
Wren wanted to get away, needed to get away, but with the entrance closed the only way available to her was past the statue and through the open door. She bolted.
Inside was another room. Smaller, it lacked any ornament or decoration, but it had its own little gem mounted in the ceiling and giving off a green light. Without a tunnel, or other doors, it only took a second for Wren to realize the room was a dead end. The space was filled with bones and smelled of death.
With wide eyes, Wren realized these weren’t chicken or sheep bones; they were bigger. Rotted cloth that might have once been a shirt draped a ribcage the size of a child. Beside it was a skull whose face was turned, empty sockets staring.
Dale?
Wren had thought she was brave to follow the sheep. She had believed she wasn’t a coward, but looking at that little skull she knew otherwise. Her legs went so weak she wavered and nearly collapsed.
Shoulda gone to the dahl, but I’m stupid . . . dumb, just like Lee said. Maybe that’s not Dale. Maybe that’s Lee right there, looking at me.
Gonna slit their throats, drain their blood into the bucket near the woodpile, and chop ’em up with his big cleaver. But it’s not Pa doing the chopping, and it’s me, not the sheep, that’s going to do the bleeding this time.
Before she could turn around, the door shut and she heard the clank of a bar being lowered into place.
Grumbling about how he hated the sound of crying, the Dherg left her alone in the bone room. She couldn’t hear him and thought he might have left. The door was still barred, but even if it wasn’t, where could she go? That Dherg could turn himself into a sheep, and somehow he managed to open stone walls. Wren couldn’t do t
hat.
I’m trapped. I knew I would be. She thought bitterly, Yay for me.
Nightmares worked the same way. The moment you thought of something terrible, that’s exactly what would happen. This was certainly a nightmare. Pa, Ma, and Lee—the unwanted—were dead, and she was alone, trapped, locked up, and buried alive.
Wren cried, curled up in a ball on the floor. She didn’t know for how long, but after a while she heard him again, the sound of his feet shuffling around the workshop and the occasional clang of something metallic. Wren also heard something else moving; this thing was much closer. The noise came from the bone pile—the pitter-patter of tiny feet.
She spotted the rat among the bones and shivered. A long black fat body with specks of white in its fur was bigger than most squirrels. She grimaced when she realized he got that way by feasting on so many remains.
And a new meal has just arrived, she thought bitterly.
“Tetlin’s pimpled arse!” the Dherg cursed. This was followed by a loud ringing sound in the workshop that sent the rat scurrying out of sight.
Wren wished she could run and hide too. Instead she sat down and hugged her knees.
The door opened and the Dherg came in. He held the wooden bowl in one hand and made a fist with his other. He clenched the hand so tightly that the knuckles went pale. “I’m running out of patience!” he yelled at her. “I’m losing more and more every day now.” He opened his hand and three long strands of gray hair fell to the floor. Then he held out the cup. “Fill it! Do it now!”
Wren shook her head.
The Dherg glared at her and puffed breaths out of his mouth, making his mustache flutter. “I need blood!”
“I don’t care! You can’t have mine!” Wren screamed and began to rock. She was terrified and about to start crying again. “I won’t give you anything! I won’t! You killed my family! You killed Ma and Pa and Lee.”
“No. I didn’t,” the Dherg said, managing to sound insulted. “I told you I only wanted you.”
“Then where are they? What happened to them?”
“Lost in the wood.”
Wren narrowed her eyes. “They didn’t just get lost. You did something—something magic.”
The Dherg shrugged. “Doesn’t take a whole lot to get you people lost. But I can tell you this, Cricket, they’ll stay lost until I get what I want. And there’s not a lot of berries out there this time of year, so you’d better get to it.”
They’re alive? Wren stopped rocking. If they lived there was a chance she could go home. A chance everything would be okay. She could wake up from this nightmare. “If I do what you want, will you let me go? Will you let them go?”
The Dherg smiled. “Of course.”
“And will you show me how to get home?”
“Sure. Why not?”
Wren took a breath, swallowed hard, and took the bowl from him. Inside was the long needle. “Just a cup, yes?”
He nodded. “Only a cup.”
Wren picked up the needle.
The moment she did, the Dherg shook his hands, waving her off. “Wait! Wait, for Drome’s sake. Wait until I leave. Call me when you’re done.”
“Why?”
“Never mind that.” He fled the room. “Just do as I say.”
“I’ll do it but on one condition. Tell me your name.”
The Dherg was already closing the door. “Don’t know why you care, but it’s a simple enough request. I’m Gronbach,” he said as he left.
Wren held the little bowl on her lap. The inside was black with the residue of previous donors. An uneven cake marked the rim, and she could feel the bumps of tears that had spilled down the outside and dried. The pin in the middle quivered with the shaking of her hands. Made from a silver metal, it was longer than any of her fingers and thicker at one end. The sharp piece of metal had a bend in the center as if it had been folded then straightened out again. Like the bowl, it was covered with dark bloodstains.
Wren picked up the pin with her right hand then looked at her left apologetically.
Which finger? she asked herself. Doesn’t really matter, does it?
She lay the back of her hand on the stone of the floor, spreading all five out like tiny sacrifices.
One quick stab. That’s what I have to do.
Her breckon mor felt hot. She was sweating and the pin was slippery in her hand. She clenched her teeth and hovered the pin’s point over the tip of her longest finger. She jabbed.
“Ahh!” she cried out, and had to fight the urge to suck on her finger the way she would if she’d pricked it on a thorn bush. A bead of blood appeared and she let it drip into the cup. Another two dripped and then they stopped. Wren squeezed her finger and two more fell. She struggled to force out more, but the hole had closed.
“Grandmother of All!” she cursed.
Squeeze me out a cup.
Wren stared at the pitiful stain she’d made in the bottom of the bowl and wanted to cry. Instead, she pricked her forefinger this time and rushed to squeeze out as much as she could. Six drops fell into the cup before that finger also went dry.
“Gah!”
“Are you done?” Gronbach called through the door.
“Ahh . . . yes.”
The Dherg rushed back in, took one look at the cup and frowned. “Not enough.”
“It doesn’t come out very easily.” She held up her fingers to show him.
Gronbach turned away, squeezing his eyes shut. “I don’t want to see it! For Drome’s sake, what’s wrong with you?” Retreating back to the door once more he told her. “I’m running out of time. Fill that cup, or we’ll have to do it the hard way, and you’ll never leave, and your family will die in the forest.”
The Dherg slammed the door shut on his way out.
Wren looked down at her throbbing fingers and sobbed.
Wren realized the pin wasn’t going to get the job done. To get the kind of blood he wanted she’d have to cut off the end of a finger—or worse. Her basket was sitting against the wall where she’d left it. Wren fished around for the shears. They were cold to the touch and shimmered in the green glow. She squeezed the handle and listened to the hiss as the razor-sharp blades scrapped together. She had seen Pa strip a sheep bare in a handful of minutes with them. They would easily take off the tip of a finger.
How much?
Would the pad be enough, or would she need to snip off the whole tip?
I don’t want to have to do this twice, she thought. Losing one finger was going to be terrible, having to snip off three or four would be beyond horrible, and she wasn’t at all sure she could manage such a thing.
The basket moved, catching her attention. It rocked to the side, and Wren spotted a long naked tail sticking out of the opening.
Smells my biscuits, she thought.
Wren grabbed up the basket to save her food and felt the rat fall inside as she lifted. Looking in, Wren saw that the bloated animal didn’t care for being trapped anymore than she did. It thrashed and hissed, trying to climb up the side. Wren yelped and slashed at it with the shears. She’d only meant to knock it away, but she’d caught it with the sharp tips. The rat fell to the floor, motionless. Then she saw the blood.
As fast as she could, she picked up the rat and held it over the cup. Blood drizzled, spilled, splashed, and sprayed. The rat had to be dead as it didn’t wiggle to get free. She felt a twinge of guilt for having killed it. She’d never killed anything before except the occasional biting bug. She felt like a ghoul as she begged: Please be enough. Please be enough.
“You aren’t doing anything stupid, are you?” Gronbach called out.
“No!” she shouted back. I actually think I’m doing something quite clever.
She heard the Dherg coming toward the door.
Wren had just enough time to throw the dead rat into the bone pile and hide the shears behind her back before the door opened.
Gronbach cringed the moment he entered. Blood was all over the ground. More wa
s splattered across her arm and on the front of her breckon mor. She might have had some on her face too, but she couldn’t tell. Her hands were soaked with it, and the cup was dripping.
“Eww! What did you do?” The Dherg stopped and fused his lips together in revulsion. He held a hand to his mouth, then looked in the wooden bowl. A bushy brow rose and he motioned for her to hold it up. With great delicacy he reached out and took it from her. She watched him nod. “This will do . . . for now.”
“For now?” Wren’s relief switched sharply to anger. “You said you’d let me go if I did what you asked. You said you’d show me the way—”
“When I get what I need . . . this might not be enough.”
“You’re a liar and a cheat! You said a cup and that’s what I gave.”
“Get some rest. You’re probably feeling very . . . drained. I’ll bring the cup back in the morning so you can fill it again. Just in case.”
Gronbach walked out, carefully clutching the bowl.
“Lair!” Wren shouted as he closed the door. She didn’t hear the bar and wanted to rush out and stab him in the back with the shears, but she knew he wouldn’t die as easily as a rat. Wiping her hands on her skirt, Wren looked around the room wondering if there was another rodent to be found. There wasn’t.
Covered in a cold sweat, and with both of her fingers throbbing, she did feel drained. Her stomach was empty, but she didn’t have any appetite. She knew she could never fill that cup with her own blood, and now she knew Gronbach wouldn’t let her go even if she could.
In her hand, she felt the shears. They were metal, sharp, and strong. If she could get close enough and catch Gronbach unaware, she’d stab him. Maybe in the neck or an eye.
I can’t do that.
Even killing the rat had been an accident, and she knew there was a difference between wishing someone dead, and shoving a pair of sharp wooling shears into them. Even if she did manage to kill him, what then? She would still be trapped.
I have to do something. Think. Think.
The only thing that came to her was that no matter what happened, she would need strength. She forced herself to eat one of the biscuits and drink a few mouthfuls of water. She was surprised it stayed down, and it did help. Doing something normal, something familiar, helped to calm her. Exhausted, she curled up on the floor and waited. At some point, worn out and drained, she fell asleep.
Unfettered II: New Tales By Masters of Fantasy Page 47
