by Dorian Hart
She was swept out to sea on a swell of rage. She took two steps forward and slapped Dranko hard on the side of his face. He took a step back from the blow but turned again to face her. Goddess, but he grew uglier every time she looked at him. All those scars on his goblin face, his stringy hair, his wire-coarse stubble…his was a filthy countenance to match his filthy soul.
She turned and stalked to her room.
CHAPTER THREE
“THAT WAS NICE,” said Grey Wolf acidly. “You’re a real diplomat.”
“And you’re an overbearing arse with a stupid name.” Dranko felt he could really use a drink. “I think I’ll go for a walk and enjoy some fresh air.”
“Take your cigar,” said Grey Wolf. “That way we can enjoy some too.”
Dranko didn’t bother closing the door behind him, and prowled the streets in a snarling funk. He had a half a mind to rob someone, but his heart wasn’t in it. A few times over the years he’d barely escaped following botched petty thefts attempted without a clear mind and full concentration. “Never pick a pocket if either of you is drunk,” he once told Berthel. “One of you will be swaying too much.”
He had lied to Grey Wolf. He had kept a handful of coins for himself, though it was much less than the typical take for a professional fence. After an hour of wandering, he bought himself a mug of beer and a bowl of hearty stew at a dockside tavern. Sitting at a corner table and nursing his drink, he thought about Abernathy’s visit to his room the previous night.
Dranko hadn’t taken much convincing to sign on. The Greenhouse was a palace, the bed was vermin-free, a magic box made magic food, and he had a patron who could turn his enemies into frogs in a pinch. But Abernathy’s pitch had gone beyond that. The old wizard must be able to see right down into his private dreams. He had zeroed in on the thing in life Dranko desired most. Which reminded him, it had been a while since he had thrown his last bottle.
With the extra cash, Dranko had another ale or three and drank away the afternoon, belching defiance at anyone who approached. Sometime after sunset he lurched to his feet, leered at the barmaid, and stumbled out the door. Rain began to drip from a quilt of low gray clouds as Dranko sulked his uneven way through the busy nighttime streets of Tal Hae. He tried and failed to banish the image of Morningstar’s face from his mind.
You’re so Gods-damned good at poking people. You’ve been doing it for so long, I think you’re addicted to it. That’s what you do. You pick at scabs, you get under peoples’ skins. And then they get rid of you. Praska always told you to tone it down, and you always ignored her warnings.
Dranko stopped. He had arrived at his tenement on Fishwife Row. Quietly as he could, he crept up the creaky stairs to his little apartment, hoping Berthel would leave him alone for once. Inside he went first to a sealed jar full of paper scraps and pulled one out, then groped behind his beat-up dresser until his fingers closed upon a half-drained bottle of cheap wine.
By the time he emerged back on the street, it was entirely drained. Drunken and angry—at the world, at Morningstar, at himself, at Abernathy—he made his way up a scrubby hill to a familiar cliff-top path above the sea. To his left was the harbor, with lanterns winking at him from dozens of ships as they bobbed and creaked. He turned right. Half a mile later he had rounded a wide headland and now stood above the Middle Sea, where the currents swept around the coast and out into the wide blue. The sea wasn’t blue now—it was a moonlit black—and Dranko gazed out over the murmuring water, listening to the slow song of its chop.
He fished the paper scrap from his pocket. Three words were scrawled upon it: Dranko was here. He uncorked the bottle, stuffed the note inside, and replaced the cork.
From the earliest days of his memory, Dranko had wanted to be famous. His grandmother told him stories of Cencerra the Bold, a mighty warrior maid who slew dragons by the dozen, and while the dragon parts scared him, he loved how at the end of the tales Cencerra’s name was shouted by throngs of grateful peasants, or the king proclaimed her a Dame of the Realm and showered her with gifts. He dreamt of someday doing great deeds, such that crowds would cheer and statues would be raised. What deeds those would be, he was never quite sure. That was less important. But in the little circle of his aggrieved childhood, his own name had been known and despised, and that filled him with shame and a burning dream of redemption. One day his name wouldn’t be spoken with a curse and a glob of spit. One day he’d make a difference, and Mokad would regret every scar he had carved into Dranko’s flesh, and his grandfather would stop blaming him for all the ills of his family.
He hurled the bottle—not the first and not the last—as hard and far as he could, out into the sea. The waves swallowed it up.
I’m going to be famous, Praska. Abernathy said I would be.
The thought of his old friend, and the wine in his blood, filled him with a maudlin nostalgia. Instead of returning to the Greenhouse, he detoured into the so-called Pious Quarter where most of the churches, temples, and shrines to the Travelers were set in a ring around a sprawling public park. He hadn’t shown his face at the Church of Delioch in several years. How old would Praska be now? Twenty? Twenty-one?
The grounds of the church were surrounded by a high fence of iron bars, and the main gate was closed, though two Healing Brothers stood guard. He thought he recognized one—Nolman, wasn’t it? Not a bad sort, if he recalled rightly. Dranko straightened his shirt, hoped the wine on his breath wouldn’t travel too far, and approached the gate.
“Greetings, brothers!” he announced. “Long time no visit. Is Praska still here?”
One of the guards squinted. “Who’s asking?”
“Dranko?” said the other, the one he recognized. “Is that you, Blackhope?”
“S’me!” said Dranko, wincing at his own slurred speech. “Nolman, isn’t it? I never forget a fa-name. Name. Or a face. Either one.”
“You’re Dranko Blackhope?” asked the first man. “I’ve heard…” He stopped and smirked at his mate. “Your reputation is remarkable.”
“Praska is not available,” said Nolman. “She is serving out a punishment in the Closet.”
“The Closet?” Dranko shuddered. Isolated confinement had been a controversial disciplinary measure back when he was a novice. The scarbearers claimed it was effective, but High Priest Tomnic had nearly always overruled any suggestion of its infliction. “What did she do?”
“That is not your concern,” said the second man.
“Never mind,” said Dranko. “When she gets out, tell her Dranko came by to see her, okay? I live in the Greenhouse on the Street of Bakers now. Praska can stop by any visit. Any time for a visit.”
“Go home and sober up,” said Nolman. “I’ll give your message to Praska when she’s released.”
Dranko bowed so low he nearly toppled, wind-milled his arms to keep his balance, and staggered into the night.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE FIRST THING Ernie Roundhill did the next morning was sit at his desk and write a letter because he really ought to.
Dear Mom and Dad,
I’m writing you from my new house in Tal Hae. I never even got to the city on foot since Abernathy, the wizard, did some magic to pop us right inside his tower. Aravia had a word for it, but I can’t remember it right now. Oh, and it’s “us,” since there’s eight of us, not just me. Abernathy wanted a whole team to help him. The others all seem very nice, though one of them is part goblin and involved in a mysterious gem-trading business. His name’s Dranko, and he’s also a Delioch channeler.
There’s also a young man like myself, Tor, he’s a swordsman, there’s a tough older gentleman who calls himself Grey Wolf who I think was a bodyguard. The others are Aravia, she’s a wizard, though not near as powerful as Abernathy, another woman named Morningstar who’s Ellish, and a stone-worker with a funny accent named Kibi. Oh, and Mrs. Horn, who’s kind of like the grandmum of the group. I think she must be older than Mrs. Appleford. They’re all such nice, interesti
ng people, but also I think more complicated than the folks in White Ferry. It’s hard to explain.
Abernathy has given us a house to live in, and we even have our own butler named Eddings. It feels weird to have someone serving me. Our house is called the Greenhouse, and it’s on the Street of Bakers here in Tal Hae. Isn’t that great? Our house even used to be a bakery, and I’ve already become the house cook, even though we also have a magic box that makes food.
Abernathy said we have to help keep the kingdom safe, and that it may take a long time. But I bet I can convince him to let me come back and visit. I’ll keep writing to you to let you know how everything is going.
Love, your son,
Ernest Carabend
Ernie folded up his letter and stared at it thoughtfully. He didn’t want to worry his mother unduly, and he had gone back and forth in his mind about whether to include any references to Abernathy’s world-threatening monster. His parents had hammered the importance of honesty into him like a blacksmith pounds a blade, but he could stomach small lies of omission to spare his dear mother distress.
Now he faced another difficulty: how did one send a letter to a small village a hundred miles away? He found Eddings downstairs, scrubbing the kitchen floor.
“Eddings, could you arrange to have this letter sent to my parents? They’re in the town of White Ferry, at the Roundhill Bakery.”
“Of course, Master Roundhill.”
“Oh, good. Thanks, Eddings.”
“It is my pleasure, sir.”
Having a butler sure was handy. He didn’t deserve a butler, of course. If anything, he should be the servant.
He started to ask Eddings if there was anything he needed, but was interrupted by a truly horrific noise, like a songbird being tortured. After ten seconds it hadn’t stopped. Aravia and Grey Wolf were already in the dining room, and they looked every bit as alarmed as Ernie felt. Only Eddings remained undisturbed.
“That is Abernathy summoning you to the globe room.” The butler gestured toward the stairs. “Announce your arrival and the summoning noise should cease.”
On the second floor the others had staggered into the hall. Dranko, his face haggard, had his hands clapped to his ears and was moaning, “Make it stop, make it stop!”
Grey Wolf flipped the painting, flicked the tower, and shouted over the din, “We’re here! What is it?”
The ear-splitting warble cut off, thank the Gods. They crowded into the small room while the mist inside the globe coalesced into Abernathy’s wrinkled face. There was sweat beaded on the wizard’s spotted cheeks and his hair was mussed.
“I’m sending you off on your first assignment.”
A thrill of excitement and fear flowed through Ernie. Mostly fear, he’d have admitted if anyone had asked.
“Did your monster get out?” he asked. He felt his face flush with embarrassment for having wondered that out loud. Could he sound more pathetic?
“No, no,” said Abernathy. “But the aspect of our enemy’s assault on the door has…shifted recently, and we need all the information we can get. I’ve already told you the nature of this task, yes? To inspect the door behind which my monster, as you say, is trapped. You will find it unusual, but what I need to know should be simple enough for you to learn.”
“Where is it?” asked Aravia. “And will you have time to send over some of your spellbooks before we go? You promised me, remember? It’s why I agreed to join your endeavor. Also, my cat is still at Master Serpicore’s house. Can you arrange to have my Pewter brought here?”
Abernathy sighed. “The door is near the town of Verdshane,” he said. And as for your…”
A deep chime sounded from within the glass ball, and Abernathy flinched at the noise. When he spoke again, his words came rapidly. “Very quickly now, go to Verdshane, cross-country will be fastest, leave within the hour if you can, there are some ruins north of the town, and one building looks like there’s no way into it, close your eyes and walk through the door with the bear head, inside there’s a magical blue field—don’t touch it—but in that field is a person, floating, and I want you to measure, as precisely as you can from as close as you can get, the distance between that person’s left heel and the floor beneath him, after that, return at once and tell me that distance.” He finally took a shallow breath. “Don’t talk to anyone about anything you see near Verdshane. Good luck!”
The chime rang again, more loudly this time, and Ernie remembered the sound from their first night in Abernathy’s tower. The old wizard’s worry-stricken face vanished from the crystal ball.
Back in the living room, Grey Wolf took charge. “You heard the boss. Leave within the hour. Let’s get packing, and get this over with as quickly as possible.”
Grey Wolf was obviously used to giving orders and being obeyed, and that suited Ernie just fine. Someone needed to lead, and it certainly wasn’t going to be him!
“Where’s Verdshane?” he asked the room. His voice trembled, for which he silently cursed himself. None of the others even seemed nervous. How could that be? And did any of them understand that stuff about a bear head and a blue field and a floating person?
“It’s in the Greatwood, to the north,” said Aravia. “Master Serpicore has a map of the kingdom on the wall of his library. Naturally I memorized it in its entirety. The Greatwood is only about a week’s journey from here, I imagine. Dranko, Tal Hae is your home. Have you never been there?”
“I’m more of a city boy,” said Dranko. “Forests give me hives.”
Yesterday afternoon, suspecting that Abernathy would soon be sending his team far afield, Eddings had taken the majority of Dranko’s windfall and purchased all kinds of traveling supplies. Ernie took it upon himself to carry the cooking gear, which nearly overbalanced him when combined with his spare clothing, travel tent, bedroll, and provisions. He looked at himself in the mirror that hung in the foyer, at the water skin hung on the hip opposite from his sword Pyknite. He felt almost glamorous, a true outdoorsman, and he showed a brave face to the others, as if this were something he regularly did for fun back in White Ferry. Kibi was looking back and forth between Morningstar and the sunlit open doorway. The Ellish priestess, Ernie reminded himself, was about to take her first steps into daylight.
Everyone had accepted Abernathy’s offer, even the elderly Mrs. Horn. Tor’s beaming face balanced the scowls from Morningstar and Grey Wolf. Kibi had packed the most—Morningstar’s tent, his own gear, and even a heavy mining pick—but moved about as though entirely untroubled by the extra weight.
“Ain’t got no weapon,” he explained. “Figured if there’s fightin’, I oughta have something with a sharp point I’m used to swingin’.”
Ernie made a point of checking on Mrs. Horn before they left.
“Ma’am, will you be okay? Walking for a week, I mean?”
The old woman laughed. “Ernest, I’ve been running the farm solo for almost five years, ever since I lost my husband. I daresay I walk more miles in a day than you do.”
“Oh! I’m sorry about your husband,” said Ernie. “How did he die?”
Mrs. Horn became serious. “I didn’t say he died. I lost him. Or, rather, he lost himself. Dear old William was a fisherman, and one afternoon his boat didn’t come back. I prefer to think of him as washed up on an island somewhere, building a new ship as fast as he’s able, and that one day soon he’ll be sailing home again. It helps me stay positive.”
“Say,” said Ernie. “Maybe in return for helping Abernathy, he’ll help you find your husband.”
Mrs. Horn smiled at him, wrinkles forming an oval around her face. “When I first read Abernathy’s magical card, a thought like that did cross my mind.”
* * *
They marched out of the Greenhouse and a pack mule was waiting for them, cropping the grass on the front lawn. “I did not have enough coin to buy you horses,” said Eddings, “but purchasing you a beast of burden seemed prudent. It can live in the back yard.” It was a sad-
faced but sturdy animal that accepted much of the group’s paraphernalia without complaint. Dranko announced that he was naming her E.R—short for Emergency Rations.
They headed off down the Street of Bakers, then wound their way through Tal Hae’s unimaginable crowds and out the city’s wide north gate. Once into the countryside, they followed a northwesterly course along hedge rows and sheep tracks. The air had the cool bite of early spring, but Ernie was soon sweating and huffing from the fast pace Grey Wolf had set. Hours later, as the sunlight was starting to fail, his feet were blistered and one of his calves was cramping, but he only needed to glance at Morningstar to banish any tendency to self-pity. Poor Morningstar! She had her black robe pulled down as far over her face as it could go, and her hands were pulled into her sleeves so not an inch of her skin was exposed. Ernie asked her from time to time if there was anything he could do for her, but she merely shook her head. They had stopped several extra times when she had gasped requests in cracked whispers, but she uttered not one word of genuine complaint.
Aravia claimed in her know-it-all way that there was a small road that went more directly toward Verdshane. Grey Wolf decided they should detour slightly and march up a small steep hill to see if they could spot it before it became too dark. It turned out to be a tough climb. Morningstar had to stop half way up to catch her breath, and Kibi always seemed to be falling behind. Ernie’s heart was thumping and his legs ached by the time they reached the top, but from the high vantage it was easy to spot the thin ribbon of the road curling into the northern haze.
“See?” said Aravia. “I knew it was there.”
Grey Wolf paced around the flat top of the hill. “We’ve made good enough progress for one day, and this is a good place to camp for the night.”
Ernie sat down gratefully and propped his back against a boulder. Who knew that hiking all day would be so tiring? He allowed himself a few minutes to recover, then broke out the cooking supplies and started on supper. At least cooking was something he was good at.
